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POEMS 


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BY 



WILLIAM THOMPSON ^BACON 






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BOSTON: 

WEEKS, JORDAN & CO. 121 WASHINGTON STREET, 

AND SOLD BY THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLERS. 



MDCCCXXXVII. 



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Entered according to an act of Congress, in the year 1837. 

By Weeks, Jordan & Co. 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



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Printed by B. L. Hamlen— New Haven, Ct. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Thoughts in Solitude, 13 

Thanatos, 23 

The Lesson of Life, 33 

A Forest Noon Scene, 35 

Other days, 40 

Athanatos, 44 

Life, 46 

A Vision of War, ..>..' 48 

Morning, 53 

Fragment of an Epistle, 55 

Fanny Willoughby, 62 

Lines in dejection, 65 

The Indian Summer, 67 

The Silver Moon, 69 

The Heart, 71 

The Philosophy of Life, 76 

Pen and Ink, 80 



IV CONTENTS. 

Page. 
The Fountain, 82 

Simplicity, 86 

Thoughts in St. Paul's Church Yard, New York City, . . 89 

The Wood Robin, 91 

The Rivulet, 96 

The Martyr Maid, 98 

The Decay of Nature, 100 

The Dream, 103 

The Love of Nature, Ill 

The Influence of Nature on the Individual Mind, . . . .114 
Notes, 127 



ADVERTISEMENT 



These poems are the results of my leisure at College, 
and published for experiment. If the public find any 
thing worth the reading in them, they can be followed 
up by another volume. 

Boston , August 1, 1837. 



2 



THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE 



THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE. 

Deep in a glen, where met in other days 
Two brawling streams, that, downward hoarsely hurled, 
Had carved a channel in the solid rock ; 
Beneath a sheltering cliff that northward looks, 
Frowning and vast, down whose rough, shelvy sides 
A small rill tinkles with continuous music — 
(Music that stirs, not fills the ear of thought;) 
Into this spot I turn, in one of those 
Mild moods of musing in the Autumn time, 
When the romantic mind, by something led, 
Impulse perhaps, or habit, and made sad 
By the sad waning of the gentle year, 
Turns to its own calm thoughts and meditates. 

'Tis Autumn — not when the remorseless winds 
Voiceful and loud are up, and the old wood 
Casts down its foliage, and the birds go off 
Unto a sunnier clime — but in that flush 
And glory of Autumn, when the foliage shows, 
Stained by a few slight frosts, its thousand hues, 
Making the landscape gorgeous as a world 
Decked for some ritual men have not named. 
Before me, and high towering till the eye 
Is carried up and lost in the dim clouds, 
Up swells a mountain, and upon its breast 
Lies the wide reaching forest, like a robe 
2* 



14 THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE, 

Flung o'er a sleeping giant. Here and there, 

The pine still wears its coronal of green 

Lofty and proudly, as when in its top 

Whistled the first spring bird. The hoary cedar, 

Like to some grief-worn and time-serving man, 

Bearing a burden that would press him down 

In resolution's spite, its boughs convolved 

And twisted wild, hangs from the precipice, 

Ragged and tempest-torn. The oak's broad arms, 

Knotted and vast, tower up amid the scene ; 

And the tall beech, and the soft purple leaf 

Of the mild maple : while the slender fir, 

Up whose lithe trunk the luscious grape has clamber' d 

In beauty redolent, still keeps its state, 

And leans its lifted high top on the clouds. 

Such is the scene before me, and afar 
As the eye travels off the forest path, 
Whither my steps have tended — yet I turn 
With a dimmed eye and heart of solitude, 
Following this time-worn channel up the hills ; 
And here, where the rough stream has hollowed out 
A mimic amphitheatre, my heart 
Touched with its melancholy, I sit down 
And ask myself — what life is ? 

All the world 
I see set forward, as if something great 
Had won upon their hearts, and then I see them 
Turn like whipp'd school-boys scolding at their masters. 
Naught seems perpetual — change is all life. 
The boy to-day, the locks of a green age 



THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE. 15 

Glossy upon him, when the sun goes down 

Walks with crook'd back and stumbles on his grave. 

Greatness is nothing ! for, pufTd up with pride, 

Till the big world doth tremble at it — lo ! 

All it can boast is a few feet of earth, 

And a cold coffin quite too small to breathe in. 

We eager start, and passion pushes us 

Into the busy whirl, where like a weed 

Caught in an eddy then dashed on the rocks, 

We sink to rise not, or like drowning insects 

Whirl'd round and round, we catch at life's poor straws^ 

To save an hour, and lengthen out our misery. 

And this w r e do not once, but twice, and thrice — 

Ay, and a thousand times, w r e show such wisdom. 

Like a corrected child, we smart and promise ; 

Like a corrected child, we sin again. 

Wisdom is round us ! Truth is in each flower, 

As well as in the solemnest things of God. 

Truth is the voice of Nature and of time — 

Truth is the startling monitor within us — 

Naught is without it, it comes from the stars, 

The golden sun, and every breeze that blows — 

Truth, it is God ! and God is every where ! 

Why will we not grow wiser then, and live 

Up to our natures ? Why dance on the grave, 

We maniac sages — why play tricks with time, 

Match how unequal ! as well grasp the blade 

When the red knife is driven to our hearts, 

Thinking to stay it. Truth is to be wooed, 

Not tamper'd with. Who tampers with't's a suicide — 

Ay ! doubly so, kills soul and body both. 



16 THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE. 

O, if we would be well dress' d for the grave, 
And die as dies the good man ; would we have 
In that sad hour, these human sympathies 
Sweeten'd, and soothed by solitary thought ; 
Let our whole lives with virtuous actions teem, 
With virtue's law compare. We cannot live 
Too pure, or o'er our smallest actions keep 
Too close restraint. We cannot think too oft, 
There is a never, never sleeping eye 
Which reads the heart, and registers our thoughts ; 
We cannot say too oft — ' Teach us to know 
Our end, that we may feel how brief it is ' — 
Nor can we lie too frequent or too low 
Before that cross whereon the Saviour hung — 
A blameless sacrifice. It is his fate, 
And by his disobedience invoked, 
That man shall view the sepulchre with dread ; 
That, when he looks into its narrow depths, 
Its gloom — its cheerlessness ; and, spurning earth, 
Reflection lifts the separating veil 
Which hides the future, undissembled awe 
Shall grasp his soul, and will not be dispell'd. 
Yet in this chalice hath a provident God 
Commingled blessings. He hath mark'd a path, 
And promis'd peace to him who walks therein, 
And safety through the portals of the grave : 
And though thorns weary, and temptations press 
To win him into crime, His word is sure, 
And it will save him. All our actions take 
Their hues from the complexion of the heart, 
As landscapes their variety from light ; 
And he who pays his conscience due regard, 



THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE. 

Is virtue's friend and reaps a sure reward. 

He who has train'd his heart with liberal care, 

Has robb'd the sable tyrant of his crown, 

And torn the robe of terror from his breast ! 

Death cannot fright him ; he has that within 

Which, as the needle to the Arctic kept 

By law immutable, his mind upbears, 

And fastens where earth's influence cannot reach ! 

Let loose the cohort of diseases — rend 

The finest shoots of passion from his heart — 

Snap every tie of common sympathy, 

And let the adverse and remorseless waves 

Of disappointment roar against his breast — 

And you have struck some rock on Neustria's coast, 

With but the heavings of a summer's sea. 

His spirit knows no thralldom, and it takes 

A flight sublime, where earth hath never power ! 

But there's a half-way virtue in the world 
Which is the world's worst enemy — its bane, 
Its withering curse. It cheats it with a show — 
But offers naught of substance, when is sought 
Its peaceful fruits. It suffers men in power 
To let the young aspirant rise or fall 
As chance directs. The rich man fosters it, 
And for the favor, it shuts up his ears 
Against the cry of virtuous penury ; 
Or bids him dole out with a miserly hand, 
A farthing, where a thousand should be thrown 
And proffer'd kindly. The lone orphan's cries, 
The widow's wail in impotence, perchance 
Secure a few unmeaning tears, but not 



17 



18 THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE. 

The pity which administers relief. 
Words flow as freely as a parrot talks 
At tales of suffering ; and tears may fall 
As Niobe's ; but not a sacrifice 
The heart accepts, nor pleasure is forgone, 
Which marks the principle of virtue there, 
Or such as finds acceptance in the skies. 
Who pays with pity, all my debt of love, 
Who weeps for me, yet never sees my lack, 
Who says be clothed, yet never proffers aught, 
He's not my fellow, nor deserves the name. 

A feeble virtue is a vice, adorn'd 
In virtue's semblance. 'Tis a negative 
And useless quality. It exempts from wo 
Insufferable, yet grudges perfect bliss ; 
And he but tricks him in a knave's attire 
Who boasts no other. He's but half the man, 
Who, when temptation stares him in the face, 
Assents, yet trembles to be overcome ! 
Such men do things by halves, and never do 
Aught with an earnest soul. They fool away 
A life, in which the good and evil mix 
So equal, that the sum is neutralized ; 
And Justice on their sepulchres inscribes 
No sterner truth, than when she writes — a blank. 
Why linger then betwixt the two extremes — 
The passive puppet of each circumstance ? 
Why pure and dev'lish — mortal and immortal — 
Too good for earth, and yet unfit for Heaven ? 
Why not at once dispel these baneful mists, 
Thrust from our paths the arts and blandishments 



THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE. 19 

Which win to wickedness — and rise at once 

With a proud, moral freedom, until we 

Can stand upon the stars and see to Heaven ? 

And sure 'twould be a proud accomplishment. 
Look as it may, vice is not honorable ! 
It will not stand when God shall ask our souls ! 
But virtue, this sweet blossom on life's waste, 
And truth, the only star to guide us through, 
These make men god-like ! and will give us greatness 
'When man's best monuments have pass'd away.' 
Ay ! would we be immortal — be we good. 
For good men never die ; their actions still 
Live with the living, and their kindnesses, 
Extended love, and calm benevolence, 
Hold with the sternness of a prejudice, 
Upon the spirits of immortal men. 
And hence, to live for Heaven, are two- fold reasons — 
The immediate goodness of good deeds, and then 
When the cold earth encoffins every error, 
And recollection sanctifies each weakness, 
Those unbegrudg'd and gentle memories 
That settle round our graves, like the bright clouds 
That do pavilion the departing sun ! 

But soft ! the eve comes on — the dewy eve, 
Dewy and sweet, and thought, grown sad by thought, 
Now takes a livelier tone, and imao-es. 
Feeling and sweet, come crowding on the brain. 
Balmy this breath of eve ! this breathino- air 
That comes up from the stubble field, where now 
The farmer leaves his just stacked sheaves, and goes 



20 THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE. 

Home from his honest toil. The air is still, 

Stillness more deep than this ne'er wrapp'd the world ! 

The sun has lost his force, and as he sinks 

Slowly behind the hills, his setting orb 

Shorn of its brightness, sends forth level beams, 

Which, quivering through the horizontal air, 

Braid on the eye like threads of silver seen 

Betwixt the gentle glimpses of the moon. 

The very pulse of Nature seems run down ! 

Nor breathes there one low voice, save when perchance, 

Stirr'd by the wind's last eddy, the dead leaves 

Rustle a moment, or sweeps pensively by 

The quail's lone whistle. 

Slower and slower now 
Comes down the curtaining night, and twilight hangs 
Like a dead sleep on the tempestuous world. 
Dimmer each shadowy outline, rock, tree, form, 
Bald crag, and dizzying promontory — while 
Lo ! from behind the shaggy mountain top, 
Silvering the dark pines, wheels the Harvest Moon ! 
'Neath her soft beauty will I hie me home, 
And gratefully breathe my evening orisons, 
Low unto Him, who, in all living things, 
Or sight, or sound, or joy, or circumstance, 
Moves in pervading glory ; and so witches us 
Unto high themes, and so informs each sense, 
And the whole mind of its great majesty, 
That — borne upon the reach of thought sublime, 
We gather lessons of a better world ! 



THAN ATOS. 



THANATOS. 

Then to this most unseemly dwelling place 
We must all come. This then's the fate of man. 
His hopes and dreams of greatness, his resolves, 
His grandeur, and his expectations all, 
This, the cold grave, hath power to circumscribe, 
And crush at once. He must surrender back 
His aspirations, schemes, and toils of years, 
And lay him down as lowly as the slave — 

And such is life. 

O, what are they all worth ! 
The solemn dreams, the god-like aspirations, 
High hopes, and fancies, which do come to us, 
And mingle with our poor humanity — 
What do they purchase 1 Tell me, thou who wearest 
The laurel ; thou who dost lay down at eve, 
And know thou art a favorite with the world ; 
Know that its great and gifted bow to thee, 
And do thee homage ; that the young, and pure, 
And beautiful, too, pray for thy happiness, 
And treasure up thine image, as a spell, 
In the deep fountains of their tenderness — 
What do they purchase ? Do they bring to thee, 
Contentment, and exemption from the woes 
That wait on other men ? Do they bring peace ? 

3* 



24 THANATOS. 

Bring they a heart well suited with its own, 

And with the world ? Bring they that certainty, 

And full fruition of delight, that thrill 

To the heart's center ? Do they bring the hope, 

Which, when Death tugs in the strong holds of life, 

And this frail tenement shall crumble off, 

Leaving the spirit naked, then transfused 

Shall bear the renovated essence up 

To a new world, where faith and Christian hope 

Bear the believer 1 Tell me, do they this ? 

Then wherefore seek them ? Why, mad for the gauds, 

And transitory tinselry of earth, 

When there's a solemn work for thee to do, 

And that work not begun ? Will it be less, 

That thou — the day of grace push'd further off — 

Trifle awhile with judgment, death, and hell, 

Choose light for darkness, feed thyself with husks, 

When thou art dying for the bread of life ? 

Will it be less, that thou wear out thy years — 

Thy young, best years, in service of the world, 

And give thy woes to God ? 

The world is fair 
Around, above, beneath thee ; thou hast gifts, 
And thou hast thoughts, and giant faculties ; 
Thou dost walk forth upon the breast of earth, 
An active, thinking, animated soul ; 
And gather from the wonders of the scene, 
The sea, the air, the sky, and the round worlds, 
And inapproachable orbs, that, wheeling on, 
Do sound forth ' our great immortality' — 
A something, which should make thee holier, 



TH ANATOS 



25 



Fill thee with generous feelings, sympathies, 

And all the virtues of humanity. 

But there's a magic in that word, applause, 

Which drowns the voice of wisdom in thine ears, 

And chains thee down unto a selfish end ; 

And hence, thou dost walk forth upon the scene, 

And hear the roar of waters, and the sounds 

That Nature sends up from her thousand depths ; 

And thou dost love them only as the means, 

By which thou wouldst stand with the titled ones, 

And god-like, and would write thyself immortal. 

O, granted, that thou purchase a bright name ! 

Granted, thou stand up with the titled ones ! 

Yet thou must die. Others have tried the path : 

Have stood where thy proud fancy hurries thee, 

CalFd themselves Gods, and aped their majesty ; 

Have struggled for bays and triumphs, built themselves 

Proud mausoleums, and given them their own names ; 

And they, too, died — aye ! rotted in the dust, 

Where thou shalt lie and rot, until the earth 

Rouses her myriads to the general doom : 

Yea ! thou shalt take thy place in the dark breast 

Of this, thy mother earth, that nourish'd thee, 

And after generations seek, in vain, 

To tell their children thine abiding place — 



And such is life. 

Here is a place of tombs, 
A mighty congregation of the dead, 
And here, beneath this melancholy shade, 
I lie, and listen to the solemn voice, 



26 THANATOS. 

That, from this mournful company of graves, 

Comes up to greet me. 'Tis a solemn place : 

For this dark, purple loam, whereon I lie, 

And this green mould, the mother of bright flowers, 

Was bone and sinew once, now decomposed ; 

Perhaps has lived, breathed, walked as proud as we, 

And animate with all the faculties, 

And finer senses of the human soul ! 

And now, what are they ? to their elements 

Each has return'd, dust crumbled back to dust, 

The spirit gone to God. Ha ! a loud stir — 

The murmur of forgotten generations : 

And ah ! methinks they were not like our own ; 

At least, we trust, less guilt and wretchedness, 

Less of the evils that in corrupt hearts 

Gender, and fall like mildews upon men, 

Stain' d the bright record of their history ! 

And yet they were the same. That doleful cry, 

As of some famish' d widowed one — that wail 

Of shivering orphans threatened from the doors 

Of splendid Affluence — that miser's cry, 

So fitly mingled with the midnight curse 

The robber uttereth — that piercing shriek, 

As if press'd out from some o'erloaded heart, 

By deep affliction — these, all these are ours : 

And they do witness, with tremendous force, 

That solemn truth, that men have been accursed 

From the beginning. Men e'en now, as then, 

Do clutch their gold, though they be damn'd for it ; 

Proud Affluence doth thunder by our doors, 

And the heart-broken curse and cry aloud 

To their destroyers. 



THANATOS. 27 

O, my mother, Earth ! 
Thou grievest for thy children : thou dost feel, 
And tremble at their dreadful orgies ; 
And from thy shadowy vales, and caverned hills, 
Thy rocks, and streams, and woods, and mountains dim, 
Ocean, and all her multitudinous waves, 
There goeth up a wild and general wail 
Of guilt and horror. O, my mother, Earth ! 
Some of thy children wail with thee, and feel 
The wretchedness of poor humanity ; 
And they do hear the cries, that, from lone walls, 
And depths, and caves, and crags, and horrid glooms, 
Are breathed to Heaven ; cries that go up to God, 
By fell oppression crush' d out of men souls, 
Groanings of saints, and martyrs to the truth, 
And of the unnumber'd millions that have died 
To 'scape man's cruelty. They feel with thee : 
And they do mourn the wolfishness of men — 
Their avarice, and readiness for crime 
That darkness quakes at ; and they do lift up 
Their ceaseless prayers, that the incensed God 
Will stay his day of vengeance ! 

He but speaks, 
And thou canst reap at once, a dread revenge. 
Thy hills can spout forth cataracts of fire, 
And whelm us. Thou canst open thy dark breast, 
And suck down mightiest nations. Thy proud vassal, 
The lordly ocean, can uplift itself, 
And lay a continent in ruins. Thou, 
If thou but list, canst shake thy cavernous frame, 
And lay the mountains low, exalt the vales, 



28 THANATOS. 

And scoop out all the hollows of the seas. 
These canst thou do, and yet men tremble not : 
They mock at Heaven and Hell, as empty sounds ; 
They sport with death, as children sport with toys, 
To push the laggard minutes to their graves : 
Poor idiots ! not knowing that each moment 
With its surcease, so swells the aggregate 
Of debt to God, as, through eternity, 
It shall lie like a mountain on the heart. 

The time will come — aye ! it is hast'ning on 
With most gigantic strides, when men shall rouse 
From their dark sleep of shame, scared by the shocks 
Of the convulsed Universe. The sun, 
The golden sun shall darken in mid-heaven I 
The earth shall reel ! the terror-stricken moon 
Shall fly affrighted like some guilty thing 
Aghast ! while all the planetary world, 
The laws annull'd which erst directed them, 
Leaving their orbs, shall, with eccentric march, 
Dash rude against each other — dire confusion, 
And uproar wild, proclaiming the great day, 
The day of wrath is come ! O, how the soul — 
The sin-gorg'd soul shall tremble at the sound, 
And certainty, that judgment has, at last, 
And dreadful fear overtaken it ; while with eyes 
Dismay'd at the dread brightness, it surveys 
The Saviour's glorious advent, to convey 
The ransom'd home ! O, how the frighten'd fool 
Who dared irreverent mouth his Maker's name, 
Shall tremble too ! How shall the fatten'd wretch — 



THANATOS. 29 

The wretch who fattened on the widow's tears, 
And orphan's cries ! How shall the bloated priest, 
Who merged in avarice his love to God, 
And love of souls, and dared to starve his flock 
To glut himself! The man who steep'd his hands 
In blood, and bathed them in his brother's heart, 
To feed his greediness ! Or he who wound, 
With purpose most accurs'd and heart of hell, 
His wiles around the flower of innocence, 
And snapp'd its stem ! What fearful terrors now 
Shall grasp their souls, when the loud curse of God 
Shall fall upon them, like the direful shocks 
Of thrice ten thousand thunder-bolts ! 

O! God, 
God of this fearful world wherein we dwell ! 
God of the rapid planets that in space 
Traverse together ! God of the vast Universe ! 
I would send up to thee, one solemn prayer, 
One parting adjuration. Father, and God ! 
Thou didst spread out these heavens : thou didst set 
The stars upon their thrones, the rolling orbs, 
And central worlds, and systems, that on high 
Do chant thy praises. Thou didst deign to fashion 
This planet where we dwell, give it its form, 
Its poetry of action, and its life ; 
Thou didst spread round it all its loveliness, 
Thou gavest the flowers their time, the winds their soft 
And gentle avocation, and the streams, 
Thou gavest them their increase, the floods their charge, 
The rocking ocean its solemnity : 
O, blast it not, Almighty ! — Let it not, 



30 THANATOS. 

The doom we merit, come down on our heads, 
And come from thee ; for who shall dare withstand 
The force of thy dread vengeance ! Let them not, 
The tears, the groans, the cursings, and the guilt 
Of ages, and the miserable scoffs 
Of us poor grov'ling worms — let not all these 
Provoke thee to hurl down on our deserts, 
Thy dark anathema ! O, Father, God ! 
Spare us — the rather spare us ! Hear the groans — 
The groans that burst from Calvary's top, so loud, 
So fearful, that Jerusalem's hills did quake, 
And Salem's skies wear sackcloth ; and let this, 
Hope's anchor-rock, turn off thy righteous wrath 
From our transgressions, while thy Spirit sent 
To do its office, calls us to the fold 
Of Jesus, the Redeemer ! 

1834. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 



THE LESSON OF LIFE. 

'Tis very strange, 'tis very strange, 
The fancies of our early years, 

Despite of chance, despite of change, 
Can thus melt manhood into tears ! 

'Tis very strange, the simplest things, 
No matter what they were, we loved, 

Are those the memory eagerest brings, 
And those the last to be removed, 

A word, a tone, a look, a song, 
A bird, a bee, a leaf, a flower ; 

These to the self same class belong, 
And all of them they have this power ; 

And all about the heart they bring 
Their memories — a potent spell ! 

As parting friends still kiss and cling, 
And must, yet cannot say, farewell. 

Now 'tis not, that there is not found 
As much to see, and feel, and love ; 

The earth is just as fair around, 
The sky is just as blue above ; 



34 



THE LESSON OF LIFE. 

Birds sing, bees hum, brooks prattle near, 

Music is of the world a part, 
And warm, warm words are in the ear, 

And heart beats fondly unto heart. 

And yet, the heart lies cold and dead — 
Its finer feelings will not glow ; 

The blossoms all are withered, 
We once did love and cherish so ; 

And we look round, and we look back 
At things of Life's young morning-hour , 

And wonder those of manhood's track, 
Have not as soft and sweet a power. 

And then we ask, since this we see, 
If thus, in running out life's span, 

We must be what we would not be, 
That cold, care-fretted creature, man ? 

If earth must change as on we go, 
If life, and loveliness, and truth 

Must pass from every thing below, 
With the delightful days of youth 1 

Alas, alas, as we move on, 

If thus the heart from bliss must sever, 
Better were manhood not begun — 

Better we children be forever ! 



35 



A FOREST NOON-SCENE. 

Noon in the sky. The burning sun pours down 
With an oppressive fullness, the bright leaves 
Hang languidly in the shade, the fresh green herbs 
Roll up their long and taper stems as parch' d 
By the hot influence, the small wood birds 
Have quit the open country and gone out 
Into the innermost darkness of the groves 
For shelter from the blaze ; while over all 
The scene the eye takes in, of fields and fells, 
Of swelling hills and long drawn vales between, 
Of verdure-rolling plain and flashing waves, 
And meadows veined by rivulets, comes up 
A faint and flickering steam through all the air, 
Baked by the hot sun from the dusty plain. 

Noon in the sky. And I have come out here 
To breathe awhile the air of the cool wood. 
To go into the caverns of the rocks, 
To climb out on the ridges of the hills, 
To drink in from the beauty of the scene, 
And drink in, in the gladness of my thought, 
The voices of the birds in the green boughs, 
The voices of the winds in their green tops — 
And offer, in my purity of heart, 
To Nature, one sweet hymn of gratitude, 
4* 



36 A FOREST NOON -SCENE. 

This is indeed a sacred solitude, 
And beautiful as sacred. Here no sound, 
Save such as breathes a soft tranquillity, 
Falls on the ear ; and all around, the eye 
Meets nought but hath a moral. These deep shades, 
With here and there an upright trunk of ash, 
Or beech, or nut, whose branches interlaced 
O'ercanopy us, and, shutting out the day, 
A twilight make — they press upon the heart 
With force amazing and unutterable. 
These trunks enormous, from the mountain side 
Ripp'd roots and all by whirlwinds; those vast pines 
Athwart the ravine's melancholy gloom 
Transversely cast ; these monarchs of the wood, 
Dark, gnarl'd, centennial oaks that throw their arms 
So proudly up ; those monstrous ribs of rock 
That, shiver 'd by the thunder-stroke, and hurFd 
From yonder cliff, their bed for centuries, 
Here crushed and wedged ; all by their massiveness, 
And silent strength, impress us with a sense 
Of Deity. And here are wanted not 
More delicate forms of beauty. Numerous tribes 
Of natural flowers do blossom in these shades, 
Meet for the scene alone. At ev'ry step, 
Some beauteous combination of soft hues, 
Less brilliant though than those that deck the field, 
The eye attracts. Mosses of softest green, 
Creep round the trunks of the decayed trees ; 
And mosses, hueless as the mountain snow, 
Inlay the turf. Here, softly peeping forth, 
The eye detects the little violet 



A FOREST NOON-SCENE. 

Such as the city boasts — of paler hue, 

Yet fragrant more. The simple forest flower, 

And that pied gem, the wind flower, sweetly named, 

Here greet the cautious search ; while, bending down 

Right o'er the forest walk, the wild syringa 

Displays its long and tufted flower, and swings 

In the soft breeze. And these soft delicate forms, 

And breaths of perfume, send th' unwilling heart 

And all its aspirations to the source 

Of life and light. Nor woodland sounds are wanting, 

Such as the.mind to that soft melancholy 

The poet feels, lull soothingly. The winds 

Are playing with the forest tops in glee, 

And music make. Sweet rivulets 

Slip here and there from out the crevices 

Of rifted rocks, and, welling 'mid the roots 

Of prostrate trees, or blocks transversely cast, 

Form jets of driven snow. The housing bee, 

The plunderer of the uplands, has come out 

Into these cooler haunts, and sweetly fills 

The void air with his murmurings. Soft symphonies 

Of birds unseen, on every side swell out, 

As if the spirit of the wood complained, 

Harmonious and most prodigal of sound ; 

And these can woo the spirit with such power, 

And tune it to a mood so exquisite, 

That the enthusiast heart forgets the world, 

Its strifes and follies, and seeks only here 

To satisfy its thirst for happiness. 



38 A FOREST NOON -SCENE, 

I do not think there is one human soul, 
However bowed or fretted by the world, 
But would pause here ; I do not think there is 
A heart corroded by its human cares, 
But it would soften ; and if it had gather 5 d 
A hatred of its fellow, and a sense 
Of his unkindness, and ingratitude, 
And lack of god-like qualities ; but here 
It would feel the cold fold of rust fall off, 
And, bubbling up like a fresh bursting fountain. 
Its streams of healing waters flow again : 
For every thing is soothing, the blue sky 
Looks in to bless him, the suspended leaves 
Are images of quiet, while the hush 
Of these gigantic arches of gray forms, 
Falls on his spirit with an influence 
Welcom'd and cherish' d by the pure in heart 

In shades and solitudes, the patriarchs 
And holy men of old first bent the knee, 
And to their Maker offer'd sacrifice. 
In shades and solitudes, the poets too 
Turn'd for instruction, and in these soft forms 
Of ever varying beauty, and the sounds 
Of natural harmony, have traced resemblances 
To man's abstruser being, and drawn thence 
Maxims of wisdom. Hence, the fanciful 
And beautiful superstition of the world, 
In other ages. Founts that the shepherd's lip 
Cooled, made him thankful, and the spring became 
A benefactress. Music in the hills, 



A FOREST NOON-SCENE. 39 

Made him associate some captive god 

With music there. The reeds that in the stream 

Sighed to the voluble breathing of the wind, 

Shaped out a nymph, that, henceforth, with bright locks 

Guarded its waters. Hence, the orgies, 

And rites Druidical, in solemn groves 

Of early Britain ; for the very airs 

From rock, or steep, or gloomy solitude, 

Or mount, or cave, breathed over him, and bowed 

His spirit with an awe and majesty, 

He felt must come from God. Then, since these groves 

Are held the residents of spiritual 

And breathing essences, let me here feel 

The beauty that there is in the calm shade, 

The wisdom too ; and, while from every thing 

Goes up a silent worship into Heaven, 

Rapt be the poet with the theme he sings, 

And, gathering thence his strength, be better fitted 

To follow out life's daily charities, 

And tread the way rejoicing. 



40 



OTHER DAYS. 

How many years have passed away 

Since on this spot I stood, 
And heard, as now I hear them play, 

The voices of the wood, 
Green boughs and budding leaves among, 
Piped low in one continuous song ? 

How many years have passed, since here 

Upon this bald rock's crest, 
I lay, and watched the shadows clear 

Upon the lake's blue breast, — 
Since here, in many a poet dream, 
I lay and heard the eagle scream ? 

The seasons have led round the year 

Many and many a time, 
And other hands have gather' d here 

The young flowers of the clime, 
The which T wove, with thoughts of joy, 
About my brows, a poet boy. 

And there were voices too l lang syne/ 

I think I hear them yet ; 
And eyes that loved to look on mine 

I shall not soon forget ; 
And hearts that felt for me before — 
Alas, alas, they'll feel no more. 



OTHERDAYS. 41 

I call them by remember'd names, 

And weep when I have done ; 
The one, the yawning ocean claims, 

The distant church yard, one ; 
I call — the wood takes up the tone, 
And only gives me back my own. 

Still, from the lake, swell up these walls 

Fronting the morning's sheen ; 
And still their storm stained capitals 

Preserve their lichens green ; 
And still upon the ledge, I view 
The gentian's eye of stainless blue. 

And far along in funeral lines, 

Sheer to the higher grounds, 
Touch' d by the finger of the winds, 

The pines give out their sounds ; 
And far below, the waters lie 
Quietly looking to the sky. 

And still, a vale of softest green 

Th' embracing prospect fills ; 
And still the river winds between 

The parting of the hills ; 
The sky still blue, the flowers still found, 
Just bursting from the moist spring ground. 

So was it many years ago 
As on this spot I stood, 
And heard the waters lave below 



42 OTHER DAYS. 

The edges of the wood, 
And thought, while music fill'd the air, 
The fairies held their revel there, 

And I alone am changed since then — 

Youth has forsaken me ; 
Fancy has thrown aside her pen, 

And truth has taken me ; 
And in the world, 'mid other things, 
They call me man — O, how it stings ! 

I ask these scenes to give me back 
My fresh glad thoughts again ; 

Alas, they lie along the track 
Which I have trod with men. 

The flowers I gather'd here, a child, 

I pluck'd, it seems, to deck a wild. 

The rain-bow teints then over me, 

Making the future fair, 
Were only such as span the sea, 

Tempting the wanderer there. 
We try it, and, thus lured from shore, 
Can tread the firm fresh earth no more. 

And is it true, that would we have 
Wisdom, we thus must give 

Our glad thoughts to an early grave, 
And senseless, soulless live ? 

Ay, beautiful as it appears, 

Wisdom is only bought with tears. 



OTHER DAYS. 

I have escaped the city's bounds, 
Its horrid heat, and withering air, 

And here, where the gray forest crowns 
The precipice, I bear 

My hot brow to the breeze, and feel 

Its breath of bairn about me steal. 

And here upon this rock I lay, 

Gazing up into heaven, 
Watching the swallows there at play, 

High through the ether driven ; 
Or watching the clouds that, one by one 5 
Quietly melt into the sun. 

O, would that the deep rest that fills 
This scene might leave me never ! 

Would that the circuit of these hills 
Might shut me in forever ! 

For wisdom, prize it as I may, 

I'll not thus give my life away. 

O, joyously I would come back, 
As the tired bird comes home, 

That, wearied with her high bright track, 
Far through the azure dome — 

At eve, drops down into her nest, 

To lean upon one faithful breast ! 



43 



44 



ATHANATOS. 

So, the grim monarch has thee then, and we 
Have laid the cold clods on thee : well — lie there, 
Most precious heart ! while we turn back to toil, 
And sweat among our fellows. 

Still the heart 
Lingers about thee : memory will not down. 
And one by one, come back with many a shadow, 
Visions of things that have been — things that once 
Could stop old Time himself, and make the grey-beard 
Trudge like a sluggard. 

We have buried thee, 
Most precious heart ! and here beside thy grave, 
Pour our hot tears like water : thou hast passed — 
Pass'd like some fiery exhalation, caught 
Up to the heaven of heavens, and we are left 
To trudge, and toil, and thirst, and — die in turn. 

And so we die — and so dread death dissevers 
Commingling spirits. The strong links that hold 
And make the union of kind hearts a virtue, 
Are snapp'd ; and those who were most dear to us, 
The young, and the beloved, and beautiful, 
Leave us a house of mourning ; while the heart, 
The widowed one that's left to be alone, 
Like the spring nourished oak, whose half lies prostrate 
Cleft by the thunder, which, with each renew 



ATHANATOS. 45 

Of the bright season, fewer and fewer leaves 

Puts forth and blossoms — so the heart lives on, 

A living heart, yet where Life's principle 

Seems all exhausted. Dreams together cherish' d ; 

Bright hopes, that, like the fresh earth's honeyed flower, 

Sprang up and intertwined ; anticipations 

Of the too bright to be ; thoughts, wishes, feelings, 

Imaginations, that in either heart 

Found instinct and an answer — all destroyed ; 

And the sweet mould of all these sweet creations 

We give the grave insatiable. 

And yet — 
In this same dread decay, an earnest is 
Of something yet to come : for we go down, 
Not like the sun eclips'd ; but full, and broad, 
Blazing unto the last. The human mind 
Brightens, as this dull fold of clay falls off, 
And, like the just fledg'd Cherubim, seems waiting 
For its release. The sky, so fair before, 
With all its grandeur and magnificence, 
Of clouds, and suns, and stars and silver moon — 
The earth, with its fresh drapery of green, 
Its interchange of seasons, and its smiles, 
Its sights, and sounds, and melodies, all fade — 
For, on the vision of that waiting soul, 
Heaven pours a flood of uncreated light 
Sublime, ineffable, and to its God 
It goes rejoicing ! 



46 



LIFE. 

Our years, our years, how fast they glide ! 
Life, like a never sleeping tide, 

Wild sweeps away ; 
And all that the young heart supplied, 
Visions of pomp, and power, and pride, 

Lo, what are they ! 

We live, we love, we laugh, we sigh ; 
We cheat the heart, we cheat the eye 

With things to come ; 
Aye, w T hile the gathering clouds are nigh, 
And the dread bolt is launched on high, 

To be our doom. 

We live — love brings its mysteries ; 
It clothes the earth, it clothes the skies 

With visions bright ; 
The heart is ta'en with sweet surprise, 
It gives up its best sympathies — 

Death brings a blight. 

We live — we think of laurels won, 

Of faith well kept, of proud deeds done, 

Then fix our eye ; 
Fame's thunder-plaudit cheers us on ; 
The goal is in our sight ; we run ; 

We win and die. 



LIFE. 47 

The laurel' d brow, the heart elate, 
The warrior's fame, the monarch's state, 

The castled slave : 
Each, as the world proclaims him great, 
Trembles ! for one is at his gate — 

To dig his grave. 

We grasp the wind ; we clasp a shade : 
Earth's proudest gift's a phantom made — 

So soon 'tis flown ; 
The draught is at our lips, afraid 
We dash the chalice down, dismay' d 

That life is gone. 



5* 



48 



A VISION OF WAR. 

I had a vision. 

There did come to me, 
A thing for which I could not fix a name, 
So dark, so wild, so awfully terrible, 
Its presence made me shiver, and the pulses 
Which beat about the arteries of my heart, 
Curdle with horror. J Twas a field of blood, 
A battle field where Carnage rioted, 
And War went thundering on his iron car, 
Grinding its damning wheels on bones, and skulls, 
And corses gashed — the red wounds spouting yet 
The heart's blood freshly, and the upturned eye 
Quivering beneath the vengeance. 

There was one 
Straight as the ash and sturdy as the rocks 
Of his own native Macedon, and he 
Did seem to lay his hand upon the world, 
Till, gathering in one mighty clutch her kings 
And emperors, he dash'd them into dust 
Like to another Jupiter, then planted 
His own unlorded foot upon their necks, 
And wept for more to murder ! — He pass'd on. 

Another came — with aspect less sublime, 
Yet nobler far. The regal diadem 
Sat him most kinglily, and there was that 



A VISION OF WAR. 



49 



Of majesty, and grandeur, and high thought, 
In the deep fullness of his steady gaze, 
That wheresoe'er he turn'd him, that proud look 
Did make the nations tremble ! — He pass'd on. 

Then presently another came in view, 
A unity of both ; his sable front 
Black as the scowl of night, and 'neath his brows 
Shaggy, and knit, and fierce, shot forth the soul 
Whose glare was terrible. I saw him walk 
The ocean like a God, and when he sat 
His armies on the shores of Italy, 
The land shook to receive him. He strode on 
As if the earth were his, and he a thing 
Superior to the elements. The storms 
Elanced by the Almighty on his breast, 
He seemed to take up and hurl back again, 
Daring their worst. He laid his hand upon 
The icy regions of eternal frost, 
The old and mighty barriers of Nature, 
And, like a bauble in an infant's hand, 
They crumbled and let him pass them ! — He pass'd on. 

Then saw I, at a glance, the three move on 
To fight and victory. Where'er they came, 
The path-ways were blocked up with dead men's skulls. 
And bones, and rotting carcasses, and the implements 
Of blood and warfare ! Villages sent up 
'Mid smoke and flame, the shrieks of famish'd ones 
1 Urged by constraint of hunger' to feed on 
The fruit of their own loins, their children murdering, 



50 A VISION OF WAR. 

Sucking their blood for life ; and virgins, too, 

Tender and delicate as the first blown flower, 

That, violated 'neath th' unblushing front 

Of new-born heaven, were left, spoiled, blasted, cursed, 

Useless as weeds or wrecks, on barren coasts, 

Tossed up by ocean ! Hospitals and dwellings, 

Choked to their gates with dead and dying men, 

From whom sent up, were heard the fiendish yells 

And execrations of hell-stricken souls, 

Dying unshrived and unaneled ! Vast rivers 

Ran blood — aye, all their waves were clotted o'er, 

As if their sources were some mighty heart 

Gashed to its death ! Huge ships went down on fire, 

Belching their thunders ; earth shook ; all incarnardine 

Was land and sea, till Desolation sat 

The mistress of the world ! Then heard I there, 

A voice more fearful than ten thousand thunders, 

Calling to judgment ; the tall hills were bowed 

And ran in fire, the infinite hosts of heaven 

Were out of place, and the dread sentence ran 

That ' time shall be no more V 

The sound awoke me 
Trembling, and pale, and icy, as the hand 
Of Death were on me ; and, while gushed the tears 
Of thankfulness, I bowed me in the dust, 
And poured unto high heaven my solemn prayer, 
That it was — but a dream. 



51 



TO A LITTLE BOY. 

You are sad, my boy — you are sad, you say. 
Well, 'tis a sad and a weary way ; 
Life, and its pleasures — there's much to make 
The young spirit droop and the warm heart ache ; 
There is much that calls for our griefs and tears, 
As we journey on through these weary years. 

There is much to make you, my little one, 
Pine and sick of the blessed sun ; 
There is much that will make the closing light 
Welcome, that brings in the silent night, — 
When you may turn away from these busy things. 
And lose on your pillow the bad world's stings. 

You think 'tis false, and it seems so now, 

That a cloud should shadow that unsunn'd brow ; 

And when I look at that eye so free, 

I think, there must be but life's smiles for thee ; 

And, yet, you wearied, my little one, 

Not a moment since, and wished day were done. 

I saw you gather but now, a flower, 
And I saw you drooping the self same hour ; 
Your head hung down, and your lips were apart, 
And your hand as now, was press'd on your heart ; 
And your locks were laid where they linger yet, 
On your mother's lap, and your eye was wet. 



52 TOALITTLEBOY. 

And, straightway, you tried the path again, 
And, straightway, came back with some other pain ; 
And soft was your mother's kiss, and her words, 
And then your shout was as clear as a bird's ; 
Yet, I find you here at the close of day, 
And sad, my boy — you are sad, you say. 

O, behold a picture of human life — 
Behold it here in your mimic strife ! 
You have not tried yet the sterner path 
Where men and their passions are up in wrath ; 
Yet here, on this little stage, my boy, 
You see how life doth itself annoy. 

There are larger children than you, sweet one, 

Who pine and droop with the setting sun. 

Like you, they try all these giddy things, 

And as wisely they treasure the truth each brings ; 

And so they weary their lives away, 

Children always — though their heads are gray. 



53 



MORNING. 

Sad and unquiet thoughts had come to me, 
And press'd upon my spirit with strange force, 
Long ere the day's dawn ; and, though I did wake 
From a half-pleasant dream, and cast from me 
The silken drapery that obscured the day, 
And let the cool sweet morning to my brow— 
I could not all shake off th' oppressive weight, 
Which lay like a dead mountain on my heart. 

I leant upon my arm — and far below, 
The wood lay gleaming in a silvery veil 
Wove by the dews, and there so beautifully 
Their green tops slept in the soft sun light, I 
Was witched into the spirit of poesy. 
The streams foamed down their channels, the brisk lads 
Were driving out their cattle to the hills, 
The clack of the old mill was heard, the ring 
Of the smith's anvil, and the bustling sound 
Of preparation and the stir of day. 
Music was all abroad, and seem'd to be 
A portion of Creation. The light catch 
The teamsman sung — the whistle of the lads 
Responsive, had a newness, and I thought 
An unheard sweetness. The light tides of air 
Were full of it — the melodies of bees, 
Fresh in the honey-dropping flowers, the sounds 



54 MORNING. 

Of streams and distant waters, and came up 
The plaintive whistle of one single bird, 
That, perch' d upon the neighboring hill-top, seem'd 
Calling the world from slumber. 

Why, alas ! 
O ! why wakes not the immortal part of earth 
From the deep-seated sorrow of the heart, 
Thus easily ? Why cannot man cast off 
These thoughts, and glooms, that do so cling to him, 
And waken to the life and happiness, 
Which such proud faculties as his can give ? 
O ! 'tis because there is a power within, 
Whisp'ring of good neglected, ill preferred, 
Duties passed off, and faculties misus'd ! 
It is, because the mortal triumphs, while 
The purer passions, crush' d or rooted out, 
Leave him to be enslaved ; and thus, in moments 
When Meditation, like a vestal, waits 
Upon his heart, the buoyancy and peace 
That should be his, give place to heaviness, 
And indefinable wretchedness of soul. 
O ! could the heart be school'd — could it be made 
True to its nature — to the impress graved 
Upon it by the hand of Deity ; 
Could it be taught to balance good and ill, 
With purpose to be wise — could it but choose 
The pure, and love it for its purity, — 
How happy then, were all this beautiful world ! 



55 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. 

My gentle Charles, O ! if be dear 
The eye that sheds for us the tear, 
The lips whence consolation speaks, 
The sympathy that from them breaks, 
When on the heart, God's hand at length 
Lies like a mountain in its strength, — 
Believe me then, this heart of mine 
Hath beat with more than love to thine. 

I've sat me here day after day, 
And watch 5 d my little strength decay ; 
Have felt diseases rack my frame 
With pangs too terrible to name ; 
Have felt a pain in every limb, 
My lip grow pale, my eye grow dim, 
Until the sense of wretchedness 
Has reached despair — which seemed release. 
Yes, I have sat with fainting breath, 
My heart like lead, my eye like death, 
The tears unbidden gushing forth 
Like fountains from a sterile earth, 
And turned to this or that, to find 
Some solace for an aching mind. 
I sought me books. The learned page 
My palsied sense could not engage. 
6 



56 FRAGMENT OP AN EPISTLE. 

The Faery tale, the history, 

Were pictures to a dead man's eye ; 

My eye recording every word, 

Yet 'neath them not a thought was stored. 

Stories I read I'd read before — 

I had forgot the silly lore. 

The sweet romance, the poet's art, 

They touched my brain, but not my heart. 

I gave the duty up, and there 

Flung down the volume in despair. 

I sat me where the window threw 
The distant landscape into view. 
The snow was on each living thing, 
The birds were mute nor moved a wing, 
And 'neath a garment clear and cold, 
Each flower slept locked in frozen mould. 
Here, long drawn vales in silver white 
Glistening, were offered to the sight. 
Where ran the hedge, or old stone wall, 
The icy sheet had covered all, 
And all along the rails and hung 
Downward, the icicles were strung, 
And, as the flashing sun rose bright, 
They seemed like crystals in the light. 
Where wound the maple colonnade, 
The leafless boughs still cast a shade, 
Curious, for on the crust of snow 
They vipers seemed toss'd to and fro. 
Where ran the rill in early spring, 
Beneath those maples glittering, 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 57 

Singing and dancing as the wave 

Went bickering o'er its sandy pave, 

And catching on it, shadows dim 

Of violets along its brim, 

Or lily fair, or water-cress, 

That stooped its cheek for a caress, 

Now o'er that gentle stream was cast 

The snow ridge by the mountain blast, 

Till all the valley level seemed — 

Save here and there the ice-bridge gleamed. 

But farther down that valley glen, 

The brook burst up to light again ; 

For there, pitch'd from its dizzy edge, 

The wave shot down a rocky ledge, 

And foamed and thunder'd through the brake, 

Until its waters joined the lake. 

And there, no Faery in her cell 

Had dreamed or fancied half so well, 

Or half so beautiful a thing, 

Or given it teint and coloring, 

As that wild brook had fancied there, 

And fashion'd in the frosty air. 

That brook had flung on either side, 

Its fairy frost-work far and wide, 

Till upward 'mid the rocks appeared, 

A fane as by some artist reared, 

With polished shaft, and architrave, 

And glittering porch, and crystal nave, 

And gleaming as the light shone on, 

It seemed a palace of the sun. 

Where spread the lake all sheeted wide 



58 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 

Sheer to the ragged cliff's steep side, 

Whose hoary summits glitter'd there, 

Like giants in the frosty air, 

The light laugh came upon the wind, 

And all that spake i the vacant mind/ 

There like a young and mettled horse, 

The skillful skaiter plies his force. 

Anon he shoots, and wheels, and turns, 

As if the element he spurns, 

As if, a glorious thing of air, 

His own proud will sustained him there. 

And now again he circles neat, 

And wheels and wheels again more fleet, 

Till far across the lake he swings, 

While loud and shrill his iron rings. 

Such scene as this I saw, and then 
I turned back to my couch again, 
And streaming tears and bitterer grief, 
Were all I had for my relief. 
The time — aye ! yes, the time had been, 
When, had I gazed upon the scene, 
A strange delight, a feeling new, 
Had thrill' d my bosom through and through 
But now, 'twas hateful to my eyes, 
What once had been a Paradise. 
The laugh that came upon the wind, 
1 The index of a vacant mind,' 
I hated it ; it seemed the yell 
Of devils loosed from deepest hell. 
I could have cursed the one who made it, 
Yet cursed myself the hour I said it. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 59 

— O, sickness ! what a burden thou 
To man and man's best days below ! 
He hath not known who hath not felt 
Thy power upon his heart, to melt 
And chase those airy dreams away 
Which win us when health's pulses play ; 
No, no — he cannot know the gloom 
Which settles on the sick man's room. 
The happiness of others near, 
But makes his wretchedness appear ; 
The laugh upon another's tongue, 
Starts him as if a serpent stung ; 
Upon another's lip, the jest 
Seems like a dagger in his breast ; 
And childhood's glee and innocence 
Strike joyless on his palsied sense. 
So was it then. I could not bear 
To witness joy, or joy to hear. 
I'd rather shut me from the sport 
Where mirth and revel held their court, 
And back into myself retire, 
And feed by thought the wasting fire : — 
'Tis sickness bids us feel and see, 
How strong is God, how puny we ! 

But Heaven was merciful to one 
Who dared the source of mercy shun. 
It touched my heart, relieved my pain, 
And gave me back to life again. 
It gave again that innate sense 
Of beauty, and its recompense ; 
6* 



60 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 

And Nature to her suffering child, 
Came back, the beautiful, the wild ; 
And feelings soft, and passions sweet, 
Went through my heart at every beat. 
The storms grew loud — 'twas pleasure now ! 
I loved to stand and see them blow. 
See far upon the hills where strong 
The tempest loud careered along, 
The stately ash and sturdy oak 
Bow low beneath that tempest's stroke, 
While to my ear their heavy roar 
Seem'd like the dash on ocean's shore. 
O, pleasing now the poet's art ! 
It thrill' d and burned along my heart. 
And pleasing, too, the school-boy's page, 
And crabb'd lore of a crabbed age. 
The scales had fallen from my eyes — 
I loved their pleasant histories. 
The sounds that rose at evening sent, 
That trembled on an instrument, 
With tones of fairy laughter blent, 
The skaiter's glee, the bounding ball, 
The shout that echoed through the hall ; 
Each, all, by various senses given, 
Poured through my heart the bliss of Heaven ; 
****** 

I'll rhyme no more. My thanks are due, 
My sympathetic friend, to you, 
Whose kindly deeds, and gentle words 
Came like ' the spring notes of the birds.' 
But more than all, my thanks are due 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 61 

To him who reads our being through : 
To him who rules the fates, and sees 
Through them and their dark mysteries : 
Who — though he spread my couch of pain — 
Now gives me back to life again. 



62 



FANNY WILLOUGHBY. 

" I love thee, Fanny Willoughby, 

And that's the why, ye see, 
I woo thee, Fanny Willoughby, 

And cannot let thee be ; 
I sing for thee, I sigh for thee, 

And O ! you may depend on't, 
I'll weep for thee, I'll die for thee, 

And that will be the end on't. 

" I love thy form, I worship it, 

To me it always seems, 
As if it were the counterfeit 

Of some I've seen in dreams ; 
It makes me feel as if I had 

An angel by my side, 
And then I think I am so bad, 

You will not be my bride. 

" I love the golden locks that glow 

About that brow of thine ; 
I always thought them ' so and so/ 

But now, they are divine ; 
They're like an Alpine torrent's rush — 

The finest under heaven ; 
They're like the bolted clouds, that flush 

The sky of summer's even. 



FANNY WILLOUGHBY. 63 

" I love thy clear and hazel eye — 

They say the blue is fairer ; 
And I confess that formerly 

I thought the blue the rarer ; 
But when I saw thine eye so clear, 

Though perfectly at rest, 
I did kneel down, and I did swear 

The hazel was the best. 

" I love thy hand so pale and soft, 

The which, in days ' lang syne,' 
Ye, innocent as trusting, oft 

Would softly clasp in mine ; 
I thought it sure was chiseled out 

Of marble by the geniuses, 
The which the poets rant about, 

The virgins and the Venuses. 

" I love the sounds that from thy lip 

Gush holily and free, 
As rills that from their caverns slip, 

And prattle to the sea ; 
The melody for aye doth steal 

To hearts by sorrow riven, 
And then I think, and then I feel 

That music comes from Heaven. 

" Now listen, Fanny Willoughby, 

To what I cannot keep, 
My days ye rob of jollity, 

My nights ye rob of sleep ; 



64 FANNY WILLOUGHBY. 

And if ye don't relent, why I 

Believe you will me kill ; 
For passion must have vent, and I 

Will kill myself I wffl." 

'Twas thus, when love had made me mad, 

For Fanny Willoughby, 
I told my tale, half gay, half sad, 

To Fanny Willoughby ; 
And Fanny look'd as maiden would 

When love her heart did burn, 
And Fanny sigh'd as maiden should 

And murmur' d a return. 

And so I woo'd Fan Willoughby — 

A maiden like a dove, 
And so I won Fan Willoughby — 

The maiden of my love ; 
And though sad years have pass'd since that, 

And she is in the sky, 
I never, never can forget 

Sweet Fanny Willoughby. 



65 



LINES IN DEJECTION. 

! do not deem my heart can be 
As light and idle as thine own, — 

The cup by Heaven given me, 

Was never crowned with sweets alone ! 

Around its melancholy brim, 
A chaplet wove of oak and rue, 

Hath often made my senses swim, 
And steeped my heart in poison dew. 

1 do not mean I have not felt 

The pulse of pleasure sometimes move ; 
I do not mean I have not knelt, 

And found how sweet it was to love. 

I do not mean I have not found 

Moments, when earth was full of bliss — 
Moments when every thing around 

Was eloquent as Heaven is ! 

The earth puts on her mantling green, 
The insects live, the birds appear, 

And hope and happiness are seen 
To come with every circling year. 

I gaze upon the solemn hills, 

I hear the long drawn vales rejoice, 



66 LINES IN DEJECTION. 

And through the matted grass, the rills 
Go prattling with a cheerful voice. 

And to my heart there sometimes comes 
With these, a joy I would recall, 

And earth for me in beauty blooms — 
Yet, His a desert after all. 

For these are things we mostly find, 
That please us only while they stay — 

Balsams that ease the wounded mind, 
But do not take the barb away. 

When you like me have seen them go, 
The hearts you loved, the lips you press'd, 

And in a dwelling lone and low, 

The green mould gather' d on their breast, 

When from your heart one after one, 
Are ta'en the props on which you leant, 

And every thing you look upon, 
Seems only for your sorrow sent, 

When every thing is full of gloom, 
And nothing can one ray reveal, 

Behind you grief, before a tomb — 
Then, then it is that you can feel ! 

Till then, I prithee, do not say 
'Tis folly here my grief to keep ; 

You cannot take that grief away, 
So, prithee — let me sit and weep. 



67 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

A DESCRIPTIVE SKETCH. 

The Indian summer has come again, 

With its mellow fruits and its ripened grain. 

The sun pours round on the hazy scene, 

His rays half shorn of their golden sheen, 

And the birds in the thicks seem too sad to sing, 

And sad is the sound of the wild wind's wing. 

And hither and thither, an ash leaf sear 

Goes slowly off through the atmosphere, — 

And there may be heard, when the breeze steals out, 

The hum of the bee and the torrent's shout, — 

And the caw of the crow wakes the solitudes, 

And the hill fox barks in the faded woods. 

And over the hill to his patch of grain, 

The reaper goes with his empty wain, — 

His lash resounds, his wagon rings, 

The steep re-echoes the catch he sings, — 

And the long drawn vales seem to take the strain, 

And send it up to the hill again. 

And here where late the dog-wood threw 
Its berries forth of a crimson hue, — 
And deep in the dell where the birch was seen, 
With its fragrant bark and tassels green, — 
7 



68 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

The colors are gone, the leaves are gray, 
They fall, and are swept by the brook away. 

The daisy low on the bank is lying, 

The leaves of the brier are dead and dying, 

The lea has never a blossom blue, 

Where late the rose and violet grew, 

And life is passing from glade and glen : — 

The Indian summer has come again. 



69 



THE SILVER MOON. 

When stars begin to blink aboon, 
And softly comes the sober even, 

J Tis sweet to mark The Silver Moon, 
Just printed on the blue of heaven. 

And on her full round orb to gaze, 
And give one to its sweet control, 

While other scenes and other days, 
In one broad tide of memories roll. 

I know not why — but in her mild 
And mellow beauty softly stealing, 

The fretted man becomes a child, 
And sorrow is a sweeten' d feeling. 

The heart forgets its world of cares, 
The eye forgets its world of tears ; 

And, laughing at life's thousand snares, 
We ivitt go back to other years. 

How many years of joy and dread, 
Sweet orb ! it has been thine to see. 

The lover and the loved have shed 
Their saddest, sweetest tears for thee. 

Old men have gazed at thee and sighed, 
The young man's dreams are written there; 



70 THE SILVER MOON. 

And she, who in her beauty died, 
Comes breathing on the moon-lit air. 

And gazing there — who can forget 
The frolic hours of days gone by? 

When Love and Hope together met, 
For rapture 'neath her kindling eye ? 

When boyhood's laugh was on the air, 
And boyhood's shout was on the tongue. 

And Pleasure mocked the meddler, Care, 
And mirth and revel loudly rung ? 

For one, while gazing on that bow, 
When stars begin to blink aboon — 

The sweetest happiness / know, 

Comes to me with The Silver Moon. 



71 



THE HEART. 

The heart, the gifted heart — strange thing ! 
And worthy of a nobler string ! 
Varied, as is a zephyr's wing, 

The lyre should be, 
That sings as ever lyre should sing,, 

O, heart ! of thee. 

Thine are the thoughts that bring and bless ; 
Thine are the feelings that distress ; 
Thine are the passions that oppress, 

And wake our fears ; 
Man's curse, and yet man's happiness- 
Man's joys and tears. 

And wonderful thy power that flings 

O'er all, its moods and colorings ! 

Turns joy to gloom— gives grief the wings 

Of Fays, that, free, 
Revel about the forest springs, 

Or haunted tree ! 

The light, when morn and music come— 
The bird, within its forest home — 
The house-bee, with its rolling drum- 
Aye ! and each flower, 

7* 



72 THE HEART. 

And winds, and woods, and waters dumb — 
These by thy power, 

Become distinctest images, 
Link'd to the mind by closest ties ; 
A treasure-house where, gather'd, lies 

Food for long years, 
When after life the spirit tries 

With toils and tears. 

And thus, insensibly, we feel 
A soothing passion o'er us steal, 
Binding for aye, for " wo and weal" 

Our souls to Nature, 
Till, like a mirror, they reveal 

Her ev'ry feature. 

And then, when comes adversity, 

And loves grow cold, and friendships die, 

And aches the heart, and cloud the eye 

Shadows of pain ; 
The mind can on itself rely, 

And live again. 

And thus, above earth's petty things, 

Its gorgeous gauds, and glitterings, 

Its camps, and courts, and crowds, and kings, 

Castle and hall ; 
The mind can ruffle its proud wings, 

And scout them all. 



THEHEART. 73 

Grandeur and greatness ! What are they ? 
Playthings for fools : the king to-day, 
To-morrow, is a lump of clay ; 

And yet, elate, 
We worry through life's little way — 

To rot in state. 

And what is fame ? Ask him who lies 
Where cool Cephissus winding hies : 
Ask him who shook Rome's destinies — 

Shatter' d her state ! 
There's not a dungeon wretch that dies, 

But is as great. 

What's glory ? 'Tis the rocket's gleam — 
The school-boy's rant — the scholar's theme ! 
Glory ! 'tis manhood's master-dream — 

The trumpet's bray ! 
A light that tempts upon the stream — 

To lead astray. 

What's the world's pride ? What it hath been — 
A thing that's groveling and unclean ; 
A spur to lust, a cloak of sin — 

Seemingly fair ; 
Yet, when the damp grave locks us in, 

How mean we are. 

What's the world's love ? An empty boon. 
Witness it, bard of " Bonny doon," 
Witness it, he with " Sandal shoon," 



74 THE HEART. 

And"Abbotsford"— 
A light burnt to its socket, soon 
A quip, a word. 

And yet, earth's pomp and power combined. 
Are spells that witch the human mind ; 
Make it an alien from its kind, 

And things that bless ; 
Only in the last hour to find 

Their — nothingness. 

And then, as seeks the wounded bird 
The deepest shades to moan unheard, 
The heart turns from each friendly word, 

And comfort flies ; 
Feels the full curse of " hope deferred," 

Despairs, and dies. 

And such the heart's bad passions. Let 
Its greener laurels flourish yet : 
Hope, friendship, ne'er let earth forget 

How sweet they are ! 
For peace and the poor heart are met, 

When love is there. 

Love — 'tis earth's holiest principle ! 

From every thing we catch its spell ! 

But more, from the sweet thoughts that dwell 

In woman's breast ; 
Friendship and faith immutable 

By her possess'd. 



THEHEART. 75 

Woman — 'tis here truth has its birth ! 
The rainbow round the social hearth ! 
Preserver, in its Eden-worth, 

— From pride apart — 
That happiest, wretchedest thing of earth, 

The human heart ! 



76 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 

I do not know that I should weep, 

I do not know sad thoughts should stir, 

That a long night of death must keep 
Its cold watch by my sepulcher. 

I do not know the tear should flow, 

The breast should heave, the heart should ache, 
That for my dwelling lone and low, 

The sexton the green turf should break. 

For what, in all this breathing scene, 
That meets the eye, look as I may, — 

That is, that can be, or has been — 
What is there does not pass away ? 

From the moist mould just springing up, 
The fresh green blades in the soft air, 

Like foam upon the revel-cup, 
Appear and are forgotten there. 

The leaves that shake upon the spray, 

The fern that nods upon the steep, 
Begin to wither in their May, 

And but a moment's Sabbath keep. 

And birds that come with the fresh breeze, 
And bees that come with the fresh flower, 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE, 77 

And sport away a life of ease— 
Their dwelling is as low as ours. 

And all we meet, and all we see, 

Or forms of life, or things of clay, 
Before they do begin to be, 

Are rather subjects of decay. 

The wind that stirs the curling comb 

Of the blue wave not sooner flies, 
Than dreams of youth, and thoughts of home, 

And the young bosom's ecstacies. 

The merry shout that near us rings, 

The light heart that such gladness gave, 

Our own not sooner round it clings, 
Than we must lay it in the grave. 

And after life's mature abode, 

The consciousness of wisdom won, 
They do not make a flowery road, 

Or blunt the thorns we tread upon. 

Then why should heavy thoughts appear— 

And why should images of gloom — 
As, standing by these low graves here, 

My heart lies buried in the tomb ? 

It cannot be that life is so 

Endeared by pleasure's brimming cup, 



78 THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 

That things for tears, and thoughts for wo, 
Are powerless, as we drink it up. 

It cannot be as we move on, 

Experience other lesson reads, 
Than that the heart is often lone, 

And that the bosom often bleeds. 

I know it is a solemn thought, 

I know it makes the heart grow cold, 

That all we love must here be brought, 
And covered with the dark green mould. 

I know it eats like canker rust, 

Eats heart and life, and soul away — 

That, when this shell of clay is dust, 
The crowd will still keep holyday. 

And in that crowd, some heart we cherished, 
Some form we decked, some lip we press'd. 

Will soon forget the loved one perished, 
And live caressing and caress'd. 

Still, he whose eye is skill'd to read 
The truth life's daily duties bring, 

Will rather struggle to be freed, 
Indeed, will rather shout and sing, 

As one, who rather is to be, 

Than is, amid the stir and strife ; 

Who longs to see what angels see — 
Still treading but the verge of life. 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 79 

Then surely, it is vain to weep, 

With such a future home as ours ; 
And surely, it is sweet to sleep 

With buds, and blades, and leaves, and flowers. 



S 



80 



PEN AND INK. 

I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think, 
That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen 

and ink ; 
This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme, 
The pretty thoughts and pretty words that do so softly 

chime. 

I know it must be sad for such as cannot make the verse 
Dash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse, 
But, when the thought is beautiful, and words are not 

amiss, 
O, tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this ! 

They sadly err and slander too this lovely world of ours, 
Who say we gather thorns enough, but never gather 

flowers ; 
Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome 

there, 
And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care? 

The natural world is full of forms both beautiful and bright, 
The forest leaves are beautiful, there's beauty in the light, 
And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind, 
And says, be happy in this world, and fling your cares be- 
hind. 



PENANDINK. 81 

The mental world is beauty too, and deck'd in beauty rare, 
Whate'er we see, whate'er we dream, we find it imaged 

there ; 
A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame, 
And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name. 

And beauty such as only breathes upon a seraph's lyre, 
Is in this w T orld, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire ; 
We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong, 
And life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song ! 

And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows 

but him) 
That this is but a picture here — a picture dull and dim — 
Of that delight which thrills the heart of him who can 

' in time/ 
Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into 

rhyme. 

And when I sigh and weep (which things will happen 

now and then) 
And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again ; 
Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and 

think, 
And few companions pleasure me, as these — my pen and 

ink. 



82 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

What is there in a fountain clear, 
What is there in a song, 

That I should sit and ponder here, 
And sit and ponder long ? 

The wave wells beautiful, 'tis true, 
And sparkles in the sun, — 

But that's what other fountains do, 
And sparkle as they run. 

The wave wells beautifully, and 
Sings as it pours along, — 

But every fountain of the land, 
Runs, murmuring a song. 

Then what is it that keeps me here, 
Beside this fountain's brink ? 

Why is it that, a worshipper, 
I sit me here and think ? 

The robin whistles in the sky, 
The squirrel's in the tree, — 

Yet here I sit me moodily, 
My gun upon my knee. 

And sporting round the openings 
Of yonder forest green, 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

The golden light of glancing wings 
At intervals is seen. 

And forms and things to catch the eye, 

And sounds of grove and grot, 
They pass uninterruptedly — 

They move, yet move me not. 

My hound, besides, the fit has caught ; 

For, looking in my face, 
He sees his master thinks of nought 

So little as the chase. 

Then what is it that keeps me here 

Beside this fountain's brink ? 
Why is it that, a worshipper, 

I sit me here and think ? 

The wave runs round, the wave runs bright, 

The wave runs dancing free, 
As if it took a strange delight, 

A dancing wave to be. 

And down the vale it goes, a brook, 

Over a golden pave ; 
And from the brink the cresses look, 

And dally with the wave. 

And every hue of leaf and sky, 
And forms and things are caught, 

Which dance, and glance, and glitter by, 
As rapid as a thought. 

8* 



83 



84 THE FOUNTAIN. 

And now the sun drops down the west, 

And Hesper shines afar, 
When lo ! upon the fountain's breast, 

Sparkles a mimic star. 

And soft the reflex, glimmering out, 

Is cut a thousand ways, 
As there the bubbles whirl about, 

And revel in the blaze. 

And far along the sky of even, 
The clouds, in golden dress, 

Have painted here a little heaven 
With added loveliness — 

With every light and shade so true 
And exquisitely wrought, 

As fancy never, never drew, 
As fancy never taught. 

And now the woods and sky are one, 
And, up the orient driven, 

The crescent moon hangs off upon 
The canopy of heaven. 

And round her come a troop of stars, 
And round her comes the night ; 

And o'er her face, the clouds in bars 
Are braided by the light. 

And on her beams the Oreads sail 
And revel as they go, 



THE FOUNTAIN. 85 

And little warriors clad in mail, 
And Gnomes — a faery show ! 

And every other combination 

With poetry agreeing, 
That nonsense and imagination 

E'er conjured into being. 

Odd fancies ! — yet, they came to me, 

A solitary child ; 
A lover of the waters free, 

A lover of the wild ! 

And here, I were a traitor vile, 

If — though I mix with men — 
I could not lose the man awhile, 

And play the boy again. 

Then ask you, why I sit me here, 

Beside this fountain's brink ? 
And ask you why, a worshipper, 

I sit me here and think ? 



86 



SIMPLICITY. 

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. 

Let tricked conceits, and well they may, 
Bring fame to such as crave it ; 

I'll have a name some other way, 
Or I will never have it. 

True poetry small show affords — 

Base metal rings the loudest ; 
Your men of sense use simple words — 

'Tis littleness is proudest. 

I will not sacrifice to sound, 

The sentiment I love ; 
Nor will I weave a laurel round 

The thing I can't approve. 

The prettiness we often hear, 

The jingle and the Art, 
Perhaps may please the tasty ear — 

They cannot touch the heart. 

'Tis plain, strong, common sense we want, 

To something useful leading ; 
All else is impudence and rant, 

That's little worth the reading. 



SIMPLICITY. 87 

Bright thoughts, and natural in their birth, 

Sweet style, and taste upon it ; 
'Tis these will win a name that's worth 

The keeping when you've won it. 

Virtue, and truth, and nature — these 

Can never worthless be : — 
Imagination often sees 

What readers cannot see. 

The fly the playful zephyr flings 

Up from the dusty plain, 
Will find the summer burn his wings 

And let him down again. 

So he, by adventitious things, 

Pushed up to genius' station, 
Will find he needs an angel's wings 

To keep his reputation. 

The world is proud, and vile, and vain, 

And often judging ' sairly ;' 
Yet hard to prove that ' in the main/ 

It ever judged unfairly. 

Men love to see the prize well won, 

Before they praise and puff; 
But, when the thing to do is done, 

They'll give you praise enough. 

A useful truth, and answering 
Fair purpose, as I wist ; 



88 SIMPLICITY. 

For none dare tilt, but such as bring 
Good armor to the list. 

Then leave me my simplicity — 

I love the folly well ; 
For 'tis, of all the strings that be^ 

The sweetest of the shell. 



89 



THOUGHTS 

AFTER A MORNING'S WALK IN ST. PAUl/s CEMETERY, 
NEW YORK CITY. 

Not here, not here, with the city's dead, 
Not here, not here, would I lay my head, 
Where over the wall, from the noisy street, 
Comes the clatter of tongues and of busy feet, 
As my fellow hastes by, wealth's worshipper, 
And bethinks him not — that the dead are near. 

There's a pretty flower by yon monument, 
There's a tuft of green by yon gray slab's rent, 
Some wreaths of moss on this urn appear, 
Affection has planted a willow here, — 
Yet I would not choose such a place of rest, 
With a turf like this on my lonely breast. 

There's a massy pile o'er yon sloping mound, 

And wealth has hedged it with turf around ; 

There's a cenotaph that might surfeit pride, 

And the phrase is big how a mortal died ; 

Yet I would not lie in this place at last, 

Where the stranger might gaze as he slowly pass'd. 

No ! give me a scene, where may never come 
The smoke of the city or city's hum ; 
Where the airs are fresh as fresh can be, 



90 THOUGHTS. 

And the voices of winds as they titter free ; 
And the bright green flowers put softly forth, 
And all the year deck the sylvan earth. 

A grove should hedge it around, as a shield, 
And in it, the wood-lark and thrush should build ; 
The prattle of waters should come like June's, 
And all the day sing its quiet tunes ; 
And oft as a new flower decked the spot, 
Some careless bee should neglect it not. 

And over my grave should affection raise 

No lordly pile to record my praise. 

I would not wish that a slab record 

My name with a lie and a pompous word ; 

No, no, I'd have it a bliss impart 

When spoken, and writ on the gentle heart. 

Perhaps should come with her child, to bless 
The friend of her years and the fatherless, 
Some widow, and, kneeling down by the same, 
There teach that child to revere my name : 
And the child should rise with his blue eye wet, 
And tell how he would not my name forget. 

And when should the soft moon throw its beam 
O'er the bright green leaves and the brighter stream, 
Some gentle hearts to each other knit, 
Should think for a 'tryste' it were arbor fit ; [fear, 
And their hands should close, and their lips, and no 
Should move their hearts — that the dead were near. 



91 



THE WOOD ROBIN. 

(an extract.) 

Stranger! if thou art sadden'd with the ills 

That crowd upon thy pathway, if thy heart 

Has ever felt th' ingratitude of earth, 

And made thee wish to leave it, and if thou 

Art one still pure in feeling, and canst find 

A bliss in solitude, or aught that's there — 

Come to these woods, and I will sing to thee 

A song, a song I learn'd among them once, 

When but a boy, a time when Poesy 

Was worshipp'd as we worship a sweet dream, 

That stole us from some heart-felt wretchedness. 

c Ere yet the golden sun his course renews, 
And softest day-break glimmers in the east, 
Clear, deep, and mellow shrills the robin's note, 
And hails the opening day. From some tall bough, 
The highest of the elm, or gaudy maple, 
He pours his plaint, and to the ear of morn 
Makes gladsome music. From his couch the woodman 
Starts at the well known summons and goes forth ; 
And as he hies him to his task, more loud 
The song comes through the arches of the grove. 
And now, while loudly the sonorous axe 
Fills with deep voice the solitude, his ear 
Detects the hymn between each loud response, 

9 



92 THE WOOD ROBIN. 

His friend began before him — louder still, 

And louder yet again, until the sun 

Bursts through the congregated mass of clouds, 

And sends his gladd'ning glory o'er the world. 

Meanwhile, the woodman pauses at his task, 

Shading with brawny hand his swarthy brow, 

And, circling all the wood with his keen eye, 

He spies at last the little chorister 

Perch'd on the neighb'ring hill-top, or the ash. 

Sweet is his note ! Sweet in the early spring 

When hawthorns bud, and o'er the dewy lea 

Daisies spring freshly ! Sweet in summer hours, 

When from the apple tree or prickly pear 

It flows mellifluous ! But sweeter far 

Its soothing alternation, when the winds 

Weave withered chaplets for old Autumn's brows, 

And trees cast down their fruitage, and the woods 

Assume the gorgeous livery of decay : 

Then doth he leave the tall elm's topmost twig, 

And in the hazle hedge, or dog-wood copse, 

With faint strain listless while away the time. 

Plaintive, yet sadly sweet, still is his song, 

And sings he, as if half afraid to hear 

His own shrill pipe ; and, gentler now become, 

(Constrain'd by hunger) where the thresher plies 

The noisy flail, he hovers half at ease 

And half distrustful with the barn-door tribe. 

There from the ridge he swoops into the croft 

Swift on the scatter'd grain, yet quickly thence 

Remounts, awed by the strut of chanticleer, 

Though soon alights again in desperate chance — 



THE WOOD ROBIN. 93 

For hunger drives the lion from his lair, 
And makes the pard and thirsty tiger tame. 

' His is the sweetest note in all our woods. 
The whistle of the meadow lark is sweet, 
The black-bird's rapid chant fills all the vale, 
And touchingly sweet the unincumbered song 
That the thrush warbles in the green-wood shade, 
Yet is the robin still our sweetest bird, 
And beautiful as sweet. His ruddy breast 
When pois'd on high, struck by th' unrisen sun, 
Glows from its altitude, and to the sight 
Presents a burning vestiture of gold ; 
And his dark pinions, softly spread, improved 
By contrast, shame the black-bird's jetty plumes. 
Less wild than others of the tuneful choir, 
Oft on the tree that shades the farmer's hut 
Close by his door, the little architect 
Fixes his home — -though field-groves and the woods 
Where small streams murmur sweetly, loves he most. 
Who seeks his nest, may find it deftly hid 
In fork of branching elm, or poplar shade ; 
And sometimes in the crook of ancient fence, 
And sometimes on the lawn ; though rarely he, 
The one that sings the sweetest, chooses thus 
His habitation. Seek for it in deep 
And tangled hollows, up some pretty brook, 
That, prattling o'er the loose white pebbles, chides 
The echoes with a soft monotony 
Of softest music. There upon the bough 
That arches it, of fragrance-breathing birch, 



94 THE WOOD ROBIN. 

Or kalmia branching in unnumber'd forms, 

He builds his moss-lined dwelling. First he lays 

Transverse, dried bents pick'd from the forest walks 

Or in the glen, where downward with fell force 

The mountain torrent rushes — these all coated 

With slime unsightly. Soon the builder shows 

An instinct far surpassing human skill, 

And lines it with a layer of soft wool, 

Pick'd from the thorn where brush'd the straggled flock ; 

Or with an intertexture of soft hairs, 

Or moss, or feathers. Finally, complete — 

The usual list of eggs appear — and lo ! 

Four in the whole and softly tinged with blue. 

And now the mother bird, the live-long day 

Sits on her charge, nor leaves it for her mate, 

Save just to dip her bill into the stream, 

Or gather needful sustenance. Meanwhile, 

The mate assiduous guards that mother-bird 

Patient upon her nest ; and at her side, 

Or over head, or on the adverse bank, 

Nestled, he all the tedious time beguiles, 

Wakes his wild notes, and sings the hours away. 

( But soon again new duties wake the pair : 
Their young appear. Love knocking at their hearts, 
Alert they start, as by sure instinct led, 
(That beautiful divinity in birds !) 
And now they hop along the forest edge, 
Or dive into the ravines of the woods, 
Or roam the fields, or skim the mossy bank 
Shading some runnel with its antique forms 3 



THE WOOD ROBIN. 95 

Pecking for sustenance. Or now they mount 

Into mid-air, or poise on half-shut wing, 

Skimming for insects in the dewy beam 

Gaily disporting, or, now sweeping down 

Where the wild brook flows on with ceaseless laughter, 

Moisten their bills awhile, then soar away. 

And so they weary out the needful hours — 

Preaching, meanwhile, sound lesson unto man ! 

Till plump, and fledged, their little ones essay 

Their native element. At first they fail ; 

Flutter awhile — then, screaming, sink plumb down, 

Prizes for school-boys : yet the more escape — 

And, wiser grown and stronger soon, their wings 

Obedient lift them now — when, confident, 

They try the forest tops, or skim the flood, 

Or fly up in the skirts of the white clouds, 

Till, all at once, they start, a mirthful throng, 

Burst into voice, and the wide forest rings !' 



9* 



96 



THE RIVULET. 

Child of the hills, wild rivulet, 

My young feet us'd to know, 
Thanks, that thou here dost prattle yet, 

As thou didst moons ago ; 
Thanks, that thy melody me calls 
Again from books and College halls ! 

And I have come again to view 

And lay me by thy side, 
And feel it thrill my bosom through, 

The music of thy tide — 
The music I, in earlier years, 
Heard ere my manhood woke to tears. 

And I have laid me by thee here 

To watch thy wave go on : 
And, as it journeys to the mere, 

Touched by the wind and sun, 
It sparkles, and awakes the chords 
Of my chilFd heart like childhood's words. 

From yonder grove, still pouring out 
Thy moss-green fount appears ; 

And there the rougher waters shout — 
A shout of other years ! 

And through the parted woods, I see 

The cascade foam and call to me. 



THE RIVULET. 97 

And on thy borders still, the green, 

Grass'd sod looks down to view 
Its counterfeit, and still are seen 

Blossoms of every hue, 
And far below, the thicket bends 
Downward to clasp thy wave, and sends 

A twilight o'er thee, and it lies 

Upon thee like a sleep ; 
Save where from the fringed precipice, 

Mosses and green shrubs weep ; 
Or pebble from its footing springs, 
Parting the wave in silver rings. 

And hither through the parted hills 

Winding, and round and round, 
A melancholy music fills 

The valley with its sound : 
Ah, me, how many a memory bringing — 
Those sweet bells in the turret swinging ! 

O ! I could lie forever here, 

And drink in these sweet sounds ; 
And as the music fills my ear, 

Sweeping its airy rounds, 
Here would I weep — here would I pray — 
And breathe a worthless life away. 



93 



THE MARTYR MAID. 

That innocent voice had weaker grown, 

That voice of love and song, 
Which so oft at twilight's soothing hour, 

On the soft winds played along ; 
And the faded light of the deep blue eye, 

And the faded hue of the cheek, 
Ah ! these proclaimed to our aching hearts 

A sorrow we might not speak. 

They had laid her form on the couch of snow, 

All beautiful in death, 
And the flowers they had wreathed in her auburn locks, 

Gave a perfume like her breath ; 
And the vesper star came softly forth 

And threw its silvery ray, 
Like a seraph's robe in the spirit's land, 

O'er that cold and pulseless clay. 

And they laid her in the cold, cold earth, 

Beneath the forest shade ; 
Like a floweret withered upon its stalk, 

In a solitary glade ; 
And there was weeping then of stranger eyes, 

Of youth, and maidens gay — 
For we all of us grieved that so sweet a maid 

Should so soon have passed away. 



THE MARTYR M AID. 99 

And I wept, as I gazed on that innocent one — 

A martyr to her heart ; 
And my fancy painted the ruthless hand, 

Which had hurl'd the cruel dart ; 
I thought how very, very drear 

This world hath all become, 
When the beautiful ones sent down from Heaven, 

Here, may never find a home. 



100 



THE DECAY OF NATURE. 

Season of melancholy minds ! I greet your gentle reign. 

'Tis sweet to hear the wailing winds and faded woods 
complain, 

To mark the wither'd leaves that fall, the fruits and flow- 
ers decay, 

And all that made spring beautiful pass silently away. 

The birds of spring, those harbingers of leaves and gentle 

flowers, 
The valley or the woodland hears no more their sportive 

powers ; 
The aged thorn, the spreading tree, the birch that skirts 

the grove, 
The winds are titt'ring there in glee, but there's no voice 

of love. 

The thrush's strain that pour'd along, the black bird chant- 
ing shrill, 

No longer with the reaper's song come slowly o'er the hill, 

But from the vale is heard the quail, and from the wood 
the crow, 

And from the steep is heard the sweep of waters in their 
flow. 

The rivulet that winds away amid the woods unseen, 
Whose borders nurs'd the thicket gay when summer woods 
were green, 



THE DECAY OF NATURE. 101 

Still winds away, yet seemingly in sad and sighing tone, 
Regrets the spring-time loveliness and all its beauty gone. 

A voice comes down the ravine dark where the stream 

was wont to go, 
And the solitary plover, hark ! her cry from the depths 

below. 
The rabbit leaps through the hazel thick, the squirrel seeks 

the wood, 
And the hill-fox barketh sharp and quick, in the thicker 

solitude. 

A mist hangs round upon the hills, the sky is soft with 

shade, 
And the waters of the many rills twinkle faint through 

the distant glade, 
The gentlest winds are scarcely heard, the trees are tall 

and bare, 
And a balmy softness breathes abroad through all the 

misty air. 

And that balmy softness greets the heart, till its very bliss 

is pain, 
Till it pining turns from the crowded mart, and aches at 

the sight of men ; 
Yet that melancholy feeling sure, none w r ould have the 

passion cease, 
For it hath no sorrow in its tone > to steal the bosom's 

peace. 



102 THE DECAY OP NATURE. 

Ah, no, it hath with that no part which crowds the mind 

with fears, 
'Tis a dreamy softness of the heart that fills the eye with 

tears ; 
For we think of those we us'd to love, those gone to the 

grave before us, 
And we think 'twould be sweet to forget our woes, and 

welcome the green sod o'er us. 



103 



THE DREAM. 

I had a dream. 

Summer was o'er the earth 
With her flush matronly hues, and she had flung 
Her loveliest garlands down, and there beneath 
The gentle softness of a summer's day, 
The landscape slept in beauty. Not a breath, 
Or wing of bird was heard through the wide heaven, 
Nor idled there a single lazy cloud ; 
But all was bright as the fresh penciling 
That doth distain the violet. The waters, 
Theirs was the only melody I heard — 
(Save that inaudible music which is born 
Of silence, and her sister solitude) 
And, lured by these soft sounds, I hill-ward turned, 
And up a channel'd rift, whence leapt a brook 
Sparkling with foam, I hurried me alert, 
And on a carpet of the mountain moss, 
Laid me as sillily as a pleased child 
To drink earth's beauty in. For I had been 
Early, a lover of rocks, and solitudes, 
And woods, and waters ; and they had the power 
To steal me from my sadness, when the world 
Stung me with its ingratitude, or when 
I sighed for my own heart, which, like a reed, 
Bent to its base-born passions. Thitherward 
I turned, and laid me on the breezy fern, 
10 



104 THE DREAM. 

Silent and pleased, until the outward sense 
Of beauty, and the outward forms of things 
Pass'd from before me, and I silent slept — 
The victim of a revery. 

I dreamed 
I saw a pale faced melancholy boy 
That might have seen twelve summers. He was seated 
Among his equals, and a holiday 
With its accompany ings, loud laughs and jests 
And boisterous mirth, sped merrily, and there 
Were those around him that did tender him 
A most peculiar love — a tenderness 
Such as one gives a sister. In his face 
Little you'd mark that pleased at a first glance, 
Or little to blame. You saw indeed a boy 
Of sweet though mournful countenance, but yet 
It was the solemn stillness of his eye 
That startled you, and made you turn again 
To note the lad. The jest, the sharp quick laugh, 
The whoop, the joyous shout — you could but note 
His pained and anxious features, as they rang 
Louder and louder, and you'd see him turn 
And rest his forehead on his thin pale hand, 
And sorrow bitterly. Then would his mates 
Gather and soothe him, as aware their mirth 
Had grieved him, and as if they had forgot 
In their wild joyance, him they loved and knew 
Was of so tender a spirit ; and as they circled 
And sat them there upon the turf around, 
He'd lay his head upon a fellow's lap, 
And seem to be slumbering. 



THE DREAM 



105 



Then the vision changed ! 
I saw that boy again. He was a restless 
And most peculiar spirit, to himself 
A burden, and to those that clung to him, 
A dear yet strange companion ; for his heart 
Was sensitive as a woman's, and he loved 
And hated with a suddenness, that made 
His eccentricities weakness. Things that pleased 
And won the love of others, pleased not him 
Or pleased him little. Suddenly he'd seize, 
Fierce as a starveling, on some single thing 
He deem'd would pleasure him, and then as sudden 
Cast it aside with a heart-sickening hate, 
And weep his disappointment. Books he sought, 
And made him a reputation with them. Oft 
He wearied out the long unsocial night, 
And dived into the subtlest theories — 
In silliest theories, mysteries, reasonings, 
And truths sublime he wearied, and then threw them 
Aside disgusted. Wealth he had in hoards ; 
And pictures he bought, and statues, such as where 
The soul speaks from the marble, and the high 
And living attributes of angels — these 
He w r orshipp'd, and then hated them. At last, 
Sick with himself — sick with the chase for something 
To gorge the deathless craving at his heart, 
He took a beggar's sandals, scrip, and staff, 
And turned him to the silence of the hills, 
The old magnificent mountains, where the forests, 
Slumbering for ages in the solitudes, 
Their lightning-scorch'd, primeval branches threw 



106 THE DREAM. 

Upward in many a fold, and the gray rocks 

Gigantic as the fragments of a world, 

Frown'd in their silent massiveness, and the cataract 

Shook with its anthem the deep wilderness ; 

And there he sat him down, and, strange to him ! 

He felt a peace pervading his whole heart, 

A. bliss of feeling, such as earth till then 

Had never proffer'd him. A feeling new, 

And thrilling and powerful as new, awoke ; 

A spirit had seemed to pass o'er all, imparting 

A portion of its spirituality, 

And such a sympathy was at his heart 

With all around him, rocks, hills, woods and streams, 

He seemed transformed into another's being. 

Nature a freshness wore, a melancholy 

Yet a most witching aspect. Things that once 

He gazed upon in listless apathy, 

Became a source of interest. The streams 

That rippled by him had a mirth in them 

They never had before, the small wood birds 

Whistled in pleasanter cadence, and the wind 

That whisper'd in the pine tops, seemed to him 

So like a spiritual presence, that he gazed 

As if he would win to his visual orb, 

The substanceless shadow. Then he rose, and stood, 

And shouted his joy ; the dim-lit forest aisles 

Prolonged the shout, and the gray rocks around 

Mimick'd his gladness. 

Then the vision changed. 
I saw him in the city, when these pure 
And high and holy dreamings had grown coarse, 



THE DREAM. 107 

And he had, like an eagle dash'd in dust, 
Come down from his proud altitude, and given 
His life unto base pleasures ; when that sweet 
And inward revelation of the life 
Which is in nature, was a letter dead 
Now to his readings, and he had forgot 
The harmony which once had filled his soul 
With such sweet passions. Like a harp, a broken one, 
Which still retained the half of its first sweetness, 
His heart would ring the changes ; yet its gloom, 
And mockery of past hours did make him loth 
T' repeat the strain, and so in one mad hour 
He closed his ears for ever. Purposing so, 
But listen — he could never change his nature. 
The heart, though we do shut it to the voice 
Of its humanities, in better moments 
Will, sicken'd with its vain philosophies, 
Turn back to the fresh fountains of gone years, 
Meek as a child, with its first thirst unslaked. 
And ofttimes in his solitudes would come 
The voice of waters, and they would leap up 
Sparkling and clear amid the dells and steeps 
Of his own native mountains, and their voices 
Would seem so like realities, that oft 
The still sad whispers of that exquisite 
And passionate love of beauty, might be heard 
Echoing through all the chambers of his heart. 
And in those moments, in its own true light 
Would rise upon him his inglorious life, 
And, gathering force, the charm would almost break 
That fetter'd him, and would his life go back 
10* 



108 THE DREAM. 

Unto its early freshness. Then would tears, 

Scalding and fast, burn furrows in his cheek — 

His yet youth's cheek ; and conscience, for as yet 

Conscience had power, read him the memories 

Of moments hallowed by the soft regards 

Of beauty, and high excellence, and virtue, 

— The gift of a more sweet philosophy 

Than reason has skill to fashion. He would hear 

The music of his innocent gay years, 

The soften'd pleadings of parental hearts 

Mingled in prayer for him, and too would come 

The hour when his own sinless feelings went 

Up to the God of Heaven. Then when all 

The force of natural reason, and the low 

Deep whispers of Divinity within 

Offer' d him freedom, would he burst away 

As if to win it — yet turn back again 

And be to his rebellious passions, a 

Worse slave than ever. Oh ! 'tis sad ! most sad ! 

The heart that's fallen of virtue, and would turn 

To virtue once again, finds little there 

To aid its frailties ; for with that fall, 

Losing the will was but that error's half — 

It loses the power of change, and, too, the eye 

Which once made virtue pleasing. 

Then it changed, 
I saw that boy, a man ! and he was changed. 
The eye had lost its restlessness, the lip 
Its madd'ning sensibility, and he 
Did walk and talk as meekly as a child, 
Loving all things. I stood beside him now, 



THE DREAM. 109 

And gathered wisdom — it was like a stream 

Flowing from mines of gold. When morning came 

Strange for its very freshness, we went out 

Together to the hills, and spent the day 

Kindly as brothers. Sweet the interchange 

Of thought and feeling, and in that mild mood 

When mind loves mind for its own gentleness 

Sweetly reflected. All his pride had gone, 

And in its place did gush up from his heart, 

Such a sweet feeling of humanity, 

He talked me into tears. The simplest flower 

Laid by our pathway, insects for the first 

Trying their thin wings in the dewy beam, 

And e'en the breeze that dallied with the twigs 

Of the gigantic forest tops, had something 

That linked his spirit by association 

I understood not, with that other world 

Made for the pure in heart. The world, to him — 

The busied world he had cast from his heart, 

But not his love. He felt it was his brother, 

Men were his brethren. The same air was theirs 

To live and breathe in, the same sky bent down 

To whisper in the silence of the night, 

Benevolence, and to distil on man 

The dew of its rich blessings ; but its passions, 

O ! he had got beyond them, and their whirl 

Disturbed him not. Its knowledge had he tried — 

It gnawed his lip like ashes : fame, renown, 

Ambition, they were nothing now to him, 

What more was needed ? He had learned to see 

Things as they are. He saw man rush on death 



110 THE DREAM. 

Despising truth, and flinging Heaven away 
To feed on folly ; and, by Nature taught, 
This reflex influence of th' Incomprehensible, 
His heart now loved true wisdom, and his hope 
Was on the rock of ages. 

I awoke ! 
And strange it seemed, there should be shadowed out 
And palpably, a life so like in part 
To one I loved ; and I turned wondering thence, 
And trembling with an indefinable joy — 
That — 'twas not all a dream. 



Ill 



THE LOVE OF NATURE. 

— "thy mind 
Become a mansion for all lovely forms, 
Thy memory be as a dwelling place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies." 

Wordsworth. 

I can remember (coming to these hills, 

My native hills ! once more) I can remember 

The image of a simple-hearted boy, 

Who us'd to wander here of afternoons, 

And while the time off, dreaming of mad schemes 

And building castles, on these same wild hills. 

And I can see him now as visibly, 

Moving about among the solitudes, 

Pausing anon perhaps to watch a bird, 

Or stooping to detect a violet, 

Or, sitting down beside some forest spring, 

Give his whole heart up unto idleness. 

Few knew the lad, and fewer of his fellows 
Cared he to know — and yet he was not sad. 
No ! he loved all things. But it was because 
He saw he could not feel with them, or lend 
His heart as they did. It was his delight 
To be alone : and, with himself at ease 
And with the world, he chose to love such things 
As could not play him falsely — and he made 
Friendships with nature, 



112 THE LOVE OF NATURE. 

Far into the heart 
Of the old forest, as a creation new 
Burst into glorious action, life, thought, powers, 
Feeling, and sympathy — sensation all ! 
He hurried. By the borders of the streams 
That wind far up into the innermost haunts 
Of solitude. 'Mid thickets, and the springs, 
And dells and bosky bornes, where gush'd all day 
The wood-bird's melancholy plaint, unanswer'd 
Save by the brook's wild laughter. 'Neath the cliffs, 
Where, crumbled headlong down and dash'd and wedg'd, 
Vast rocks and shatter'd slabs lay piles on piles, 
Strown by the thunder. On the highest peaks 
Blacken'd and bleak, whose rugged capitals 
Breasted the north, and battled with the storms 
First in the upper heaven : where never a leaf 
Shook in the south wind, nor a single bird 
Stoop' d for its eyrie. Where he could drink in 
With a wild pleasure, the wide stretch of wood 
And field and fell and flood, and the far sweep 
Of the magnificent circuit of the heavens, 
Which, coming down upon this lower world, 
Did seem to rest its pillars on the hills, 
Shutting them round, and framing a temple vast 
For man to worship in ! Where he might hear, 
Roll'd up with many a murmur from below, 
The voice of the forest, which, shook by the wind, 
Heaved in long swells like waves that swing and strike 
The shore of ocean. A mild shock, a thrill 
Electrical shot vivid through his frame, 
Bringing a newer life ; and, former things 



THE LOVE OF NATURE. 113 

Loosing their thousand folds about his heart, 

The soften'd images of natural forms, 

And hues, and shapes of joy, his soul filled full ; 

Until his heart beat with a pulse and power 

That lifted up his being, and he felt 

His individual mind, a counterpart 

Of the vast universe ! 

That simple boy 
Has grown acquainted with the world since then — 
And grown in love with folly, as some say — 
And is perhaps a worldling ; — yet, sometimes, 
There will a dream come to him, and a sigh 
Not very unlike sorrow touch his heart — 
That things have been so beautiful. 



114 



THE 

INFLUENCE OF NATURE 

OX THE 

INDIVIDUAL MIND. 

EXTRACT FROM A VALEDICTORY POEM PRONOUNCED 
BEFORE THE SENIOR CLASS OF YALE COLLEGE, 

July 5, 1837. 

Philosophy! that other name for thought — 
And wisdom, when that thought is purified — 
And holiness, when God hath sanctioned it — 
How shall we, in these dim and twilight times, 
Approach thy fount and drink at thy pure stream ? 
Six thousand years have thirsty cavilers 
Despised the draught that might have quench' d their thirst, 
And torn for aye the scales from their dimm'd eyes, 
And bade them look unawed at the pure beam 
Which flows from thee ; and yet their wisest ones — 
The great, the good, the glorious of earth, 
What have they done but shame thy purity, 
Obscure the plain, involve complexities, 
Till in a maze where error's self runs mad, 
They've sat them down, and dreamed that they were free? 
— Egyptia sleeps in silence. The soft light 
Of mild philosophy's aye cheering beam 
That 'lumed her altars, shed a dying smile 



THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 115 

Over her desecration and went out, 
And now the darkness and the level waste 
Where stood her temples, hear the long lone howl 
Of desert beasts that dig their caves unscared. 
Yet truth died not : and her philosophies, 
Though cumbered down with error and o'erwhelmed, 
Had much of truth. Her prophets, priests, and kings, 
Like comets when they traverse the high heavens, 
Flung back their brightness ; and when Media 
Its hosts poured forth, an iron sea of waves, 
And whelmed her in their passage, light went forth, 
Glanced round th 5 Egean and her hundred isles, 
Till Greece and Italy blazed bright, and altars 
Gleamed on their mighty shores. The sky was bright — 
Miletus saw it and great Thales lived, 
And bade the mind go free. Crotona's sage 
Caught the enrapturing beam : his eager mind 
Rose to the stars and bound them in their orbs, 
And gave the key to man. And Socrates, 
Whose influence like the light on good men's graves — 
Then he arose ; and Plato, and the Stagy rite, 
Until, like congregated stars, their beams 
United seemed, o'erspreading the wide world. 
— Yet freedom lagg'd : the mind hung back aghast, 
And wondered at itself. The heaven-plumed bird 
Smote not with level wing the fields of air, 
Its proper home — but, stooping from that height, 
Hugg'd its foul chains and mingled with the dust. 
And why ? because that fountain's purity 
Was less than pare, and mind would thirst again. 
Like waters filtered through a shallow soil, 

11 



116 THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 

Wisdom welled up in the benighted soul, 
And it was tainted. Thought was not pure thought- 
Wisdom was not true wisdom — and man's free. 
His great and glorious energies, were shackled 
With gyves of iron. Rome sprang into being, 
Swelled unto vastness, and then passed away — 
Because she was not free. It is not freedom 
To tread on prostrate nations, and overwhelm 
And desecrate their altars ; 'tis not freedom 
To send the Doric column to the skies, 
Pile towers on towers, and build up mausoleums 
To human vanity ; it is not freedom 
To make the marble speak, the canvas glow, 
The heart leap into eloquence, or trip 
To the light numbers of the poet's reed ; 
This is not freedom ! But it is, when mind, 
k Struck from the burning essence of its God,' 
Lives for high action, aims, and purposes, 
Comporting with and dignified by truth ! 
This is true freedom, which, when overlooked 
By the strong errors of perverted nature, 
At once strips mind of mind's prerogatives, 
Cripples its splendid powers, and makes the man, 
That vilest thing on earth — a shackled slave ! 
— Europe was such a slave a thousand years, 
And hugg'd the dust. The light that burnt so pure 
In heathen Socrates, went up to Heaven 
At his translation, and the human mind 
(Part freed, and now liung back upon itself,) 
Like an erratic star, then shot away 
Wild from its orbit, and went flaming on 



THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 117 

To wander in the solitude, and ' blackness 

Of darkness' ever and ever ! Here behold 

A picture of philosophy — or rather 

A picture of the mind when unbaptized 

In the pure fountain which the God-head beams ! 

'Tis all unfit for us ; we cannot drink, 

But the strong mind of man will thirst again. 

We need a purer element ; we need 

A something that shall fresh the fever'd lip, 

Cool the hot brow, and stop the ringing brain, 

And pour a purer flood-tide through the heart — 

We need a something that doth come from Heaven. 

O ! 'tis the thirst of man's immortal nature, 

Mated and chained here to its gods of clay ! 

It is the thirst which writes him glorious, 

And gifted like the golden hosts of heaven ! 

For in the solemn chambers of the soul, 

The startling secret lives of its great powers, 

And hence we weary on from day to day, 

And feel a void the bad world cannot fill. 

Hence the strong thirst in man to set himself 
High where the world shall see him as they run ; 
Hence the strong feeling to perpetuate 
And write one's name in light among the stars ; 
And, sure, it is an independency 
In character and keeping with his powers ; 
And sure, the mind well train'd may rouse itself, 
And ruffle its proud pinions to be free ; 
But, yet, it is a sad experiment — 
This giving it to freedom — for the world, 



118 THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 

And these bright glorious objects that we see, 

Have so much in them that is vanity, 

They only lead astray and soil its wings. 

Man 25 a gifted being. There is that 

In the eternal temper of his mind, 

Which showeth his affinity to Heaven ! 

And greatness sits upon him naturally ! 

And goodness — when the bad world is shut out, 

And virtue — when the heart lives in itself, 

And sweetness — when its sweet streams are all free : 

And woman gives him her warm heart to keep, 

And children climb his knee and lisp his name, 

And widows call down blessings on his head, 

And orphans steep his ashes in their tears, 

And he is that bright being Heaven design'd ! 

— But in him is another principle 

God-like and great ; and in his hours of ease, 

It cometh with a voice of witchery, 

And giveth his strong spirit to the world. 

It is Ambition ! and upon his heart, 

Robing itself like a fallen child of light, 

It sits and breathes a madness in his ears. 

Around his brow it wreathes a band of fire, 

Within his grasp a sceptre, and his foot 

Treads proudly over graves and dead men's skulls. 

Virtue is all forgotten ; all his dreams, 

Distempered by the madness of his heart, 

Are foul, and his great thoughts are thoughts of blood. 

Peace is his discord ; the soft slavery 

Of the domestic circle is despised, 

And woman is the plaything of his lust, 



THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 119 

And virtue is a thing that hath no name. 
And so it leads him on, till, tearing out, 
One after one the virtues from his heart, 
It sends him to the grave — without one tear. 

O, if in this hushed multitude before me, 
There dwells ambition's victim — if there be 
One bosom beating with unholy fire — 
I pray you, take a better counsellor ! 
And, if you will, the poet shall be yours, 
And we will walk together in the fields, 
And I will open with you that sweet book 
Writ in the loveliest language of the world. 
It is the book of Nature ; often scorned, 
Yet not the less a book, and fill'd with truth 
Such as the careless scholar hath not learned. 
It needs a gift to read it ; common minds 
Are all too proud to win its unbought truths, 
And passion here is an unholy thing. 
It doth not come with study, nor is bought 
By unwise maxims or the saws of books ; 
The wisdom of the schools is out of place, 
Its cumb'rous nothings must be thrown away, 
And the heart nurtured into confidence, 
Must all give up its boasted habitude, 
And go back to the meekness of a child. 
Then will she take the wanderer by the hand, 
And she will lead him on from step to step, 
And she will lead him up from height to height, 
And she will show him beauty in all things, 
And she will teach him true humility, 
11* 



120 THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 

And what an ugly thing is human pride. 
And she will show him how the world is crazed, 
And what a foolish grief is at its heart, 
And how it turns away from happiness, 
And how it loves to feed itself, and — starve. 
And all is pure with her. There is no need 
To measure, and combine, and separate ; 
The lesson that she reads is one great whole, 
A part of which w T hen gained shall give you all. 
It only needs a pure and teachable spirit, 
And she becomes the veriest prodigal, 
x\nd is of her rich bounties free as Heaven. 

— The humble and the gifted boy she loves. 
And to him, in his hours of solitude, 
And to him, in the coolness of the morn, 
And in the dewy hush of eve, she comes : 
And if his state be poor she makes him rich, 
And if his heart be sad she makes it light, 
And if his heart be chilled she makes it warm — 
Because she gives him what God gives to all, 
A portion of the universal air, 
A portion of the blue of the far sky, 
And of the sweetness that is sent abroad 
By brooks and bees and birds among the hills ! 
This is all his — and he can feel it his — 
And none can take this noble wealth away. 
He can go out in the clear days of spring, 
And he can feel a something at his heart, 
The which the great world cannot understand. 
The silence and the night are friends to him, 



THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 121 

Because he has within, a gifted eye, 
And when the outward world is all shut out, 
He can refurnish with the past his dreams, 
And thus make solitude a little world 
Peopled with fancies which he knows are friends. 
He has an eye for beauty, such as never 
Beameth on common men. The merest leaf, 
The golden glance of wings, the level plain 
With its magnificent sweep of cloud-capp'd hills, 
Propping the very heavens — all this is his ! 
He has an ear for music too. The breeze 
Dances among the locks of his bright brow, 
And breathes into his heart ; the choral burst — 
The anthem that the broad fresh world sends up, 
Its jubilee ; the silver and sweet streams 
Singing for happiness ; the bees, the birds, 
And the soft music that his fancy brings 
In from the rolling spheres — all this is his ! 
You cannot take it from him, for the gift 
Was given him with being, and it is 
As priceless as the attributes of Heaven. 

Have you not sometimes felt in those calm hours, 
When the wild pulse of pleasure had run down, 
And life had all become a weariness ; 
When you have turn'd away from the wild whirl, 
Its madness and its mockeries, and space 
Was given for reflection, and the thoughts 
That do administer to the sick soul, 
And soften it when fretted by the world ; 
When you have thus turned off, perhaps at morn 



122 THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 

When the bright flood of life came pouring in 

After the morning star, or noon, or at calm eve 

When the soft twilight had come quivering down, 

And, with a presence like deep holiness, 

Press' d on your spirit — or when deeper night 

Had flung its solemn shadows over things, 

And the loud-voiced streams had louder grown, 

And the light rivulet, that ran all day 

With a continuous murmur, and a tone 

Of joy self satisfied, more shrilly piped ; 

When sleep lay on the valleys, and a soft 

And silvery veil hung round upon the hills, 

And over all, the circumambient walls 

Of Heaven, with its bright innumerable points 

Of sparkling flame, bent down upon the scene ; 

Have you not felt a something at your heart, 

As if an angel had been pleading there ? 

A something in you softening to all things, 

Even the meanest things that God has made ? 

Until, while sweet thoughts gush'd up into tears, 

You have knelt down and prayed for this bad world ? 

— O when my heart has ached, and I have felt 

As if this world had cast me from its love, 

The young, and the beloved, and beautiful ; 

When I have paused, and with a half formed curse 

Upon my lips, and thoughts of bitterness 

Have crowded up so fast, and forced the tears, 

The mad, mad tears into my woman eyes, 

Until, tired with the dashing them away, 

I've let them unrepressM steal silent down ; 

In such sad moments — and there's not a heart 



THE INFLUENCE OP NATURE. 123 

That's gifted with the sensibility 

That's given brutes, but can count over such 

Many and bitter~in such moments I 

Have left my dwelling, and gone forth alone 

Beneath the sky of midnight, when the stars 

Shone from their habitations, and the moon, 

The young and beautiful moon, looked like a spirit 

Sent from a purer region ; and its mild 

And most unearthly light has won its way 

Quick to my madden'd feelings, and my heart, 

The throbs of my proud yet most injured heart, 

Have hushed themselves beneath its influence, 

As doth the breathings of a child, that sinks 

From sorrow to the quiet arms of sleep. 

And as that soothing and most heavenly calm 

Has come upon me, I have thought that earth 

Was a sweet spot to dwell in ; that its thousand 

And tens of thousand varied influences, 

Its waters and its winds, its sounds by day 

And melodies by night, had something dearer 

Than witchery in them ; that they were the voices 

Of the Invisible, whispering in these, 

His most neglected agencies, that truth 

Which he would write upon the soul of man ! 

And I have thought that man was not thus vile 

As I had deemed him — that revengeful being, 

Stern and relentless, dark e'en in his love, 

And darker in the moments of his pride ; 

That I had wronged him — and a soften'd feeling 

Fraternal has come gushing through my heart, 

And I have knelt down on the cold damp earth, 



124 THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 

With nought but night around me, nought above 
Save the deep heavens and the eternal stars 
Which God has hung there, and — have pardon* d all 

This is the lesson — love, love all the world ! 
He wrongs his nature who has learned to hate. 
God hath made nothing man should dare despise. 
The fountains, and the feelings, and the thoughts 
That make up virtue, He hath so advised, 
Shall only bring the heart true happiness, 
And he but starves himself who turns away. 
The natural passion of the heart is virtue, 
Its streams flow backward when hate centers there ; 
It lives in its affections, and the man 
With a warm bosom may look down on kings ! 
The world has more of truth in't than appears. 
He's but half villain who seems wholly so. 
Nero was all a villain, yet one heart 
Loved him, and strewed fresh garlands on his grave. 
And at this parting hour, should truth have weight. 
Sorrow is most forgiving, and to be 
Made humble by it is true nobleness. 
Forgiveness is true happiness, and he 
Is happiest most who shall the most forgive. 
And happiness is holiness, for he 
Can only holy be whose heart is love. 
So live — and, trust me, a long life is yours ! 
So live — and ye shall proudly walk with men ! 
The great man with you shall forget his greatness, 
The good shall come to you and call you theirs, 
And she, to whom man's slavery is no sin, 



THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE, 125 

Why even she shall lay aside her pride, 

And come to you and tell ye of her love. 

And when that last, dread, parting hour comes on, 

And the bright sky, and the bright world around 

With all it hath of beauty and of sweetness, 

With all it hath of poetry and life, 

With all it hath to elevate, and purify, 

And make men's natures noble ; when all these 

Fade from thy vision, and thy hold on life 

Is frail and feeble, then lift up thine eye, 

And where the star of faith hangs in the heavens, 

Look ! and go hence — rejoicing. 



NOTES 



A long preface was not prepared for this book, because prefaces are out 
of fashion — nobody reads them. Still, every writer has something to say, 
either about himself, or his particular habits, or the taste of the public, or 
the peculiarities of his book ; which, things he may say, it is supposed, 
without giving up his character for modesty — and these it is thought best to 
say here. It is not pushing them, as it were, into the reader's face, as it 
would seem to be doing, if they were in the preface ; and the critics, it is 
believed, always let notes go, as out of their line of business. Thus the 
present writer hopes to escape scot-free. 

Some readers will probably censure this work from the fact that so much 
is said in the author's own person — that it is so much a transcript of his 
own feelings. But indeed if this privilege is denied him, he may as well 
give up all thoughts of pleasing at once. Poetry with him, has always been 
a communing with his own warm emotions, combined with the forms of 
external Nature, owing perhaps to his having been early thrown into cir- 
cumstances favorable to such an exercise, and to studies since then calcu- 
lated to promote it, and he gives it to others such as it was to him. If this 
is a fault, the error is great ; most of the book has something to individualize 
it; he cannot write other than from individual feeling; and of course, then, 
from the very first to the last, he has been running out of, when he would 
have been running into, the reader's good graces. But I will hope better 
things. 

"Thou dost, walk forth upon the breast of earth 

An active, thinking, animated soul!" Page 24. 

In Wordsworth's " Excursion" occur the following — 

"Upon the breast of new created earth, 
Man walked," <fec. &c. 

14 Still from the lake swell up these walls 
Fronting the morning's sheen." Page 41. 

For the benefit of the writer's acquaintance, he would state, that those 
familiar with his native village will probably recognize this as that beautiful 
little scene, commonly called ( Ash-swamp.' or 'Ash-meadow.' A poetical 
title truly ! however, if tradition has not sanctified every lovely spot in our 
matter-of-fact, money-making country, as it has done in the old world, it is 
still a question, whether that should keep us from admiring what is truly 
admirable, or from weaving into verse what, if the truth were known, is 
probably far superior in point of real beauty. 

'Athanatos.' Page 44. 
These lines were written on the death of Mrs. Caroline Averill, wife of 
Mr. Augustin Averill, New York City. She was a lady of a most sweet 
temper, the most unexceptionable habits, and devoted piety. 

12 



128 NOTES. 

'Life.' Page 46. 

For this piece, the author is somewhat indebted to a fine Spanish poem by 
Don Jorge Manrique, preserved in an old translation of Spanish Ballads. The 
same has been translated by Professor Longfellow, in his work entitled 
" Outre Mer." 

'Fragment of an Epistle.' Page 55. 

Byron somewhere says, " Scott alone has triumphed over the fatal facility 
of this octo-syllabic verse." This ought to deter a common man. It is hoped, 
however, the reader will not be offended with this 'preserved record' of an 
effort made during a slow recovery from severe illness, to cheat the heart 
from its griefs by an innocent occupation. 

1 To a little boy.' Page 79. 
Addressed to a child of the author's sister. 

'The Fountain.' Page 83. 

This poem is professedly an imitation of Wordsworth. The writer will 
be content, if he have struck but one string of the full sounding lyre of the 
great English master. 

'The Dream.' Page 103. 

Every body has read Byron's dream, in which, under a sort of allegory, 
he has pictured his own character. It is hoped that the arrogance of an 
attempt to shadow out similarly, the development of a mind under different 
influences, will be forgotten in the distance of the execution. 

'The Influence of Nature on the Individual Mind.' Page 114. 

The reader by this time cannot fail to have recognized, how much the 
writer of these poems has been beholden to the poet Wordsworth. He 
makes the full acknowledgment, and that most willingly, having no wish to 
conceal from any circle into which his own book may be thrown, his high 
opinions of that great man. And America has yet to learn — a fact however 
which she is fast learning — how much the brightest names in her present 
poetical calendar, are indebted to this same writer. This is no detraction — 
themselves have confessed and made it public. Dana, in a preface to his 
prose works, written with all that vigor for which he is remarkable, says — 
"I shall never forget with what feeling my friend Bryant some years ago 
described to me the effect produced upon him by his meeting for the first 
time with Wordsworth's Ballads. He said, that upon opening Wordsworth, 
a thousand springs seemed to gush up at once in his heart, and the face of 
nature, of a sudden, to change into a strange freshness and life. He had 
felt the sympathetic touch from an according mind, and you see how in- 
stantly his powers and affections shot over the earth and through his kind." 
Here is a testimony, which is surely worth something in support of our 
remark. 

The present writer has long entertained certain opinions in respect to the 
poetical prospects of this country, and of our obligations to Wordsworth, 
which he may be pardoned for revealing in this place. When he has looked 
at the great revolutions in poetry, seen one school supercede another, and 
the face of society and a whole age even completely changed in consequence 
of it, he has been led to ask himself the question, if this must always be 
so 1 If it is a fact, that truth is not immutable in its nature— if the time is 
not soon to come, when our systems of philosophy shall be placed on such 
a basis, that they shall not be shaken by every man who attempts it, and if 
we are not some way or other, to have a permanent poetic literature 1 It has 
seemed to him that this was to be so ; and that this country was to be the 
place for the experiment. The following article, prepared for a different 
occasion, and which the writer meant as something like 'A Defence of 



NOTES. 129 

Wordsworth,' embodies some of his opinions on this subject, which with 
the public's permission shall be inserted here, and though somewhat imma- 
ture, it may perhaps serve his purpose better than a new one. 

"Very much is said about the popular poetry of the day, of its lack of 
ease, truth, and naturalness ; and some have gone so far, as to see in this, 
the decline of all poetry, and have predicted its speedy downfall; but if I 
may be permitted to hazard an opinion here, I think there is something 
favorable to poetry, in the aspect of the times. In the quick changes, the 
lightning movements, the rapid revulsions, and in the fearful gathering up 
of the mind for some great conflict, as it evidently is gathering ; I say, there 
is something in this, to set the heart on fire, and stir it up into life-giving 
expressions of beauty ; and something, too, I fear, giving evidence of a de- 
cline, far more important in respect to the well being of society, than any 
thing which can possibly result from so inconsiderable a moral engine as 
poetic literature. In the cries about the universal diffusion of knowledge, 
so frequent and loud, in the headlong rush towards the practical, in the 
daring hardihood with which we welcome every doubtful innovation, in 
the rashness with which, every thing that is pure and beautiful in the ideal 
world is stigmatized, and in the fearful strides, with which, in every thing 
connected with our moral and civil governments, we are hurrying into 
ultraism ; in all this, there is something for patriots to think of, more dan- 
gerous in its tendency and certain in its consequences, than any thing with 
which poets are connected. The poets can never wield the nation ; he who 
thought that, give him the making of the songs of a nation, and he would 
thereby mould its character, was a Utopian in theory, and would have 
been found worse than that in practice. There is a set of principles to be 
elucidated, and sent abroad among the gifted and powerful spirits of the 
day, and there diffused, that they may work themselves gradually into the 
economy of society, with which poets have nothing to do. Poetry is too 
volatile in spirit, and delicate in substance, to affect the common mind to 
any considerable degree, where the philosopher has not previously been, 
and succeeded in laying a deep and broad foundation. The fact that poetry 
existed in the most primitive ages, and previously to any form of govern- 
ment, is nothing. The chant of the early Hebrews, the traditions of the old 
Scandinavian Chronicles, were nothing ; nothing but the incipient struggles 
of that energy in man, which, if left uncontrolled, only hurries to confusion. 
The efforts to separate poetry from philosophy, or give it precedence, and 
the unmerited obloquy heaped upon one who has attempted to bind them 
together, are evidences only of an error in the times, which, if persevered 
in, will be most disastrous. We have had enough of the mighty exhibitions 
of misdirected passion, and our sensibilities have long enough been outra- 
ged by perverted genius. The mind which, throwing off the restraints of 
truth, runs riot through the labyrinths of the human heart, and awes us by 
its superhuman energies, may win our admiration while we weep the con- 
sequences, but in our dispassionate moments, that man takes the most effec- 
tive hold of our sympathies, of whose principles we are justly confident, to 



130 NOTES. 

the direction of whose genius we are willing to yield ourselves, and of 
whose sound philosophy our judgment gives approval. The attempt to 
establish a permanent poetic literature on passion merely, will never do; 
it is substantial and accurate knowledge only, for a basis, with the solid 
columns of the superstructure already there, where the poet with propriety 
may step in, and think to give it the decorations. All he can hope to do is, 
to please and entice to virtue : it is only when the poet and philosopher are 
united in one, that men can be convicted and driven to it. 

"The evils we have to fear in this country, are, the tendencies of our 
form of government, and the fact that we speak the language of a nation, 
already perfect in its literature. If history is worth any thing, its testimony 
is against us : it needed the dissolute and splendid Pericles, the iron tyranny 
of the Caesars, the haughty and severe Julius, and the renowned and lascivi- 
ous Louis, to render the several eras in which they flourished, brilliant and 
famous. The first evil, however, manifestly, has not served to absorb all 
the talent of the country; and of the latter, I think, there is equal proof 
afforded, by a reference to the poetry already produced, that it is no insur- 
mountable obstacle. Of course, I shall not particularize ; but every reader 
knows, that in the writings of our first poets when contrasted with those of 
England, there is as distinct a character as possible. To be sure, the great 
genius and the lovely philosophy of the famous master of the 'Lake School, 5 
is visible among us, giving proof that he has been studied to advantage ; but 
then, only so far as has aided in the development of our poetry, without 
materially modifying its originality of structure. With facts before us, it 
is rather a matter of wonder, that poetry should have made any progress 
here ; especially when we reflect on the latter circumstance, that it can be 
had from the old country and in any quantities, to satisfy all such as have 
a disposition to read it. But it furnishes a stern and conclusive argument, 
in favor of the poetic as well as matter-of-fact mind of the nation, that, with 
the small phalanx of poets we muster, their names should have gone so far, 
and their influence been so great. It would seem to show, that, with all the 
charges against the practical tendency of the times, there is a place yet 
left in our hearts, for the contemplation of the good and the beautiful ; as 
if there was a poetic as well as cash value among us ; as if our wide and 
lovely country had a spiritual as well as real existence, and as if she was yet 
to rise in this spiritually, and be a herald to the world. 

" One of the greatest events of modern times, and one of the greatest 
advantages we have in this country, is the rise, at the very moment our liter- 
ature is forming, of the pure and commanding genius of William Words- 
worth. I believe this to be an era in poetry, a period to which future 
times will recur, as to one at once peculiar and beautiful, as developing the 
principles and laying the foundation of a sound poetic literature, that is, one 
which is based on a sound philosophy. Waving all considerations of the 
question, whether the age of poetry is past, as a question equally at war 
with good sense and reason, I directly advance the opinion, that our country 
is yet to be beholden to this writer, for every thing which is desirable in 



NOTES 



131 



this department of its letters. That we must have a literature, we all know, 
since there can be no good government without it ; and that the ground 
once trodden, and the air once breathed by the Pilgrim Fathers, can never 
nourish a school after any of the impure poets of the day, is as certainly true. 
The many school houses and churches among the valleys of New England, 
forbid us to ihink of moulding our poets upon bad models, and to whom 
shall they be pointed as a safe guide, both for beauty and truth, and as pos- 
sessing every thing which is chaste and in unison with New England char- 
acter, if not to him 1 Ease and purity, originality and power, a vigorous and 
graceful imagination, joined to a taste the most severely pure, and all har- 
monized and softened down by the most generous and comprehensive hu- 
manity, peculiarly fit him to be the guide star of our poets, and a safe model 
for imitation ; and, it may be added, that our wide and romantic country, 
with its lakes and savannas and solitudes, furnishes a fair field for the 
growth of those principles which it has been the business of his life to pro- 
pound, and on which he has grounded his ever enduring fame. If we can- 
not boast as much art here, we can boast more nature than in the old coun- 
try, and he has plain enough refuted the notion, that a renowned ancestry, 
dilapidated towers, and a dark and dim antiquity to back them, are at all 
essential to productions of the most finished beauty. Hence, I think, the 
appearance of such a writer at the present day, an event the most fortunate 
for us, as tending to aid and give direction to our dawning taste, which else 
perhaps might run into extravagance ; and, yet, it is a most mortifying 
reflection, that so many of us are found, to echo the detractions with which 
the English press has teemed, and to shut our eyes against a truth which 
may break upon us too late, and our hearts to a poet, whose only fault is 
that he is not perfection. 

"The abuse with which Wordsworth has been met in the literary world, 
is a circumstance unparalleled perhaps in literary history ; and yet even 
at the present day, when the assertions of his claims to pre-eminence are 
becoming in some measure fashionable, and the leading presses of Europe 
are beginning to learn justice ; when the benign influence of his great mind 
is beginning to be felt in the literary atmosphere, and the froth and fume 
of the powerful and prostituted genius of the age, are beginning to separate 
from the mass, and show how little of what first astonished us is worthy of 
such admiration ; when society is beginning to rouse itself from that moral 
paralysis, into which a few unhappy minds have thrown it, and a pure and 
invigorating pulse is beginning to be felt in the very heart of the republic 
of letters ; I say, even at this time, there is not a more necessary requisite 
than a large stock of charity. There is need of it for the opinions of that 
'large many,' whose names are high in the calendar of criticism, or like the 
poor hen-pecked figurante, in the fanciful Legend of Sleepy Hollow, we 
shall think all the world crazy. Society is still filled with these retailers of 
old opinions, and the periodical press with unforgotten calumnies ; the 
change has not yet become thorough, the conviction has not been radical, 
the renovation complete ; it still confines itself to the presiding spirits of 



132 NOTES. 

literature, the effect not yet having worked its way downward to the com- 
mon mind. Nothing is more common, than to hear theories attributed to 
our poet, of which he never had a conception, and faults saddled upon him, 
of which he is entirely innocent; nothing is more common, than to hear 
rules and principles laid down — principles which he entirely disowns — and 
supported by all the arrogance of genuine ignorance ; nothing is more com- 
mon, than to meet a man charged to the very throat with abuse and bitter- 
ness, who upon the questioning can no more give you one of the peculiarities 
of his style or character, than he could of one of the authors before the flood. 
Add to this, the fact, that such numbers have committed themselves in 
opposing him ; also, that there are numbers whose minds are preoccupied 
by the writings of some other author; also, that there is a large class of 
men in this world, who can see but little good in any thing ; men entirely 
destitute of generous sympathy, who measure works by the scarcity of 
errors, rather than the prevalence of beauties ; men who advance to the 
work of purifying literature, as the anatomist approaches with knife and 
scalpel, to mangle and murder; men who have no notion whatever of the 
spirit of a language, and who, could they carry their rules out and have our 
literature shaped by it, would leave us nothing but a soulless jargon of 
elegant imbecility. It would be like the face of the dead, conforming indeed 
in outline to the rules of beauty, without the life-giving power of its intelli- 
gence. 

"But it has been Wordsworth's misfortune to suffer by means of his 
friends also, as well as his enemies. The same fascination which is seen to 
hold the followers of Coleridge, when imbued with the spirit of his wonder- 
ful yet somewhat peculiar philosophy, is as manifest in those of Wordsworth. 
They look up to him with a kind of veneration ; and a sort of transfusion of 
the poet's thoughts, feelings, and sympathies, into their own breasts, makes 
every attack on him seem like an attack on themselves. There is a tender- 
ness in them in behalf of his reputation, so extremely sensitive as often to 
become ridiculous, and it cannot be denied that they are sometimes led by 
it into much extravagance. Such is the place he holds in their hearts, that 
every charge made against any of his peculiarities, is not a charge in their 
view preferred against an author, and pertaining therefore to the safety 
of literature, but as one made against an absent friend and teacher, and 
they therefore demand for him the same immunities. They enter upon 
a defense of him, with the pre-conviction that he must be right, and they 
are, as a consequence, supplied with negatives to every accusation, and are 
not always so willing to be candid as propriety demands. Of course, how- 
ever advantageous they may be in some respects, and however flattering 
this must be to the personal pride of the poet, friends of this kind are not 
in all cases prepared to advance his reputation. A man of true genius is 
never injured by just and honorable criticism; on the contrary be is bene- 
fited, for the discussion must always elicit his excellence ; and for them 
to suppose that our poet is altogether above criticism, is at once advancing 
a claim which is not true in fact, and which, if it were, it is not always pol- 



NOTES. 133 

itic to urge. Enemies are never so bitter as when drawn up in fight, and 
opposers would be more willing to allow him decided merit, would his 
friends only forego certain claims which are inconsiderable, besides not 
being well founded. It is the forgetfulness of this more than any thing else, 
which has swelled the cry against him into something like a thunder peal, 
and drawn forth his most indefensible writings ; and if his friends could 
only be persuaded of this, and learn to speak of him as a little less superhu- 
man, much opposition would cease. It is beyond dispute, that some of his 
poetry is so very modest, in the claims it advances to be called such, that to 
say the least, a man must have all his wits about him to defend it. The 
incongruity discovered, when most of his poetry is compared with his own 
theory, a theory in many respects objectionable, though the model of some 
of the finest verses in the language, is another source of difficulty. The 
acknowledged inequalities of his blank verse, also, have not escaped cen- 
sure ; and add to this, that his thoughts, theories, manner, and method are 
entirely opposed to the prevailing taste of the day, and we shall easily see 
that the number of opposers must necessarily be great, and the grounds 
they go upon are by no means so contemptible as is supposed. The only 
wonder is, that there are not more who oppose him ; indeed it is astonishing, 
that with all these difficulties, he should, in the short space of ten or fifteen 
years, have so far succeeded, in bringing back to its former purity the vitia- 
ted taste of the age, and establishing in the very heart of this corruption 
and within hearing of the magnificent yet coarse strains of Byron, a school 
at once pure in sentiment, elevated in thought, and harmonious in diction ; 
that it should be said of him, within the limits of these same few years, 
and be found recorded in the pages of the same journals, 'he is a weak, 
puny dresser-up of prosy thoughts' — and — ' one of the master spirits of 
the age; that he should have created a home for himself in the hearts of 
thousands on both sides of the Atlantic, opened to the mind of man an en- 
tirely new range of thought, taught him to look upon this broad inanimate 

world, as a bright animate 

"dwelling place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies ;" 

and by his matchless intellect alone, have succeeded in chaining poetry and 
philosophy together, until poetry's eagle wing lifting her more sluggish sis- 
ter, they have both soared untrodden heights, and tracked their bright way 
to the very throne of God. 

"The man unread in Wordsworth, can hardly imagine the force and depth 
of his philosophy, the amazing power of his imagination, or the full sound- 
ing harmony of his language. He has flung a new light over every feature 
of nature ; new beauties and new associations are linked with the most com- 
mon every-day objects ; nothing has seemed to escape the magic wand of the 
enchanter. The merest leaf of the forest, and the bald and ragged mountain 
rock, alike furnish thoughts for him ; the stream as you pass it has a truth 
for you, the torrent and the flood have a voice, and you cannot go into the 



134 NOTES. 

Wilderness, but its silence is a moral. Thus, he has not only linked with 
Nature a song and a sentiment, but he has made her the oracle of truth, and 
the representative and counterfeit of all that is beautiful and pure in Chris- 
tian charity ; and no man, imbued with the deep and solemn spirit of his nar- 
rative, can look upon the face of nature or of human society, but there is a 
breathing in his heart of kindness to all men, and a love which can never die. 
And the fact that he possesses this power over others — this power of mould- 
ing young minds into his own peculiarities, is at once the proudest testimony 
of his colossal genius. If there were nothing else to judge by, if he had been 
convicted of every possible error both of feeling and philosophy, and when 
called up to the bar of criticism, found himself obliged to answer to every 
fault in the category of Aristotle, there would need no other proof of his great 
and profound mind, than is afforded by this. It is the province of great 
minds to make minds, and our poet can put in his claims here beyond those 
of most of his contemporaries. He can claim to have aifected the thinking 
mind of England, beyond that of any other poet whatever; to have laid a 
deeper and broader foundation for a true fame, that is, on the understand- 
ing rather than the opinions of men ; to have exerted, notwithstanding the 
ridicule heaped upon him, a silent yet powerful influence ; to have opened 
new sources of feeling in the human bosom, and won the love of thousands. 
The still sad music of humanity, is the cry which is ever ringing in his ears, 
and he has learned to look upon himself and every other creature, as indi- 
viduals of one mighty brotherhood, moulded and banded together by the 
hand of the Almighty ; to feel it incumbent upon every man, alike the poet, 
and the peasant, the man of taste, and the philosopher, to consecrate himself 
in his individual capacity to the advancement of truth ; and thus, lightening 
each other's burdens and smoothing down the rouah pathway of life, we 
may go on our way rejoicing together, looking by the eye of faith through 
the misery which surrounds us, up to that other world of glory inapproach- 
able, where we shall all be united to our common Father, where truth and 
poetry are one, and religion is all in all ! 

" Such are the individual views of one, long accustomed to think upon the 
character and writings of Wordsworth, and of the peculiar relation which 
he seems to sustain to the rising literature of this country. That there are 
many of different sentiments, I know ; but, still, I may offer it as my own 
humble opinion, that his efforts to diffuse a simple and spiritual philosophy 
as the substratum of a sound and permanent poetic literature, will hereafter 
be found to have been one of the most praise-worthy and stupendous achieve- 
ments of the human mind." 

The poem with which the present writer closes his own volume, though 
professedly embodying some of the philosophic notions of Wordswoi fch, so far 
as he understands them, of course is not brought forward as other than a very 
trifling effort, on a favorite theory. The poem was occasional, as is stated ; 
and such pieces are never of much power or forethought. It is hoped, how- 
ever, that the time is not distant, when some one shall rise among us to 
carry on what England has so well begun, unto a blessed consummation. 



ERRATA. 

43d page 4th line — for bear read bare. 
4.5 " 5th " " flower u fencers. 
7G " bottom line " flower M Jlowers. 
U2 {< 2d " " creation " creature. 



u 



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